


For The End of My Broken Heart

by Wickedtruth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Horror, John Finds Out, M/M, Soul Bond, Tattoos, impala!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedtruth/pseuds/Wickedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dad's disappeared and Sam's left to pick up the pieces of his broken brother.  Post Devil's Trap AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Sosoru & Wenchpixie.

Dad’s gone, again. Checked himself out of the hospital as soon as he could; damn near the very second they knew Dean would pull through. Left Sam to try and comfort a brother who’s broken, physically and emotionally, while he’s still trying to deal with his own injuries, both visible and invisible. Of all the things that Dad’s ever done, _this_ is the one Sam finds hardest to understand; the one he knows he’ll never be able to forgive.

Because Sam knows why he’s gone, why he’s not there when Dean finally, _finally_ , wakes up. It’s not because he’s got a hot lead on the demon, nor because he’s trying to lure the demon away from his sons, nor any of the other reasons he tells Sam in the days before he goes; lies that Sam doesn’t bother to call him on, because hell, what’s the point, he going to do what he wants anyway, and Sam’s too tired, too hurt, to argue anymore. No, the real reason he’s going is because he can’t face Dean. Can’t face his firstborn child, knowing the painful truths the demon used to hurt Dean so badly.

Sam hates himself for it, but he’s glad Dad’s gone – though Sam doesn't understand how any father could walk away from his sons like that. He knows that Dean’s probably not going to be happy when he wakes up and Dad’s not there, but Sam is relieved. Dad’s guilt and despair and fucking bottomless well of _denial_ made Sam’s skin twitch, and his stomach roil. When their father came to Dean’s room; where _Sam_ has spent most of his days; to say goodbye, Sam merely nodded and pointedly didn’t watch his father leave.

After that, the days start to blur. Sam gets ever stronger, and Dean, well, Dean doesn’t wake up. Physically, he’s healing, but Sam never doubted that. It’s the state of his mind that worries Sam. He’d never realized, until that moment in the cabin, when the demon spelt it out, just how emotionally fragile his brother was. Realized too, why Sam’s leaving had hurt Dean so very badly. Dean’s invested _everything_ in his family, even at the cost of the things he must have wanted for himself, and he’s watched Sam and John throw that dedication back at him, time and time again. How many rejections can one person take? Sam can only hope there hasn’t been one too many.

Every day that passes scares Sam a little more, increases the chill in his stomach, the ache in his chest. Every day leaves Sam a little more despondent, a little more alone, a little more broken. But he can’t break, because _when_ Dean wakes up, Sam’s afraid he’ll shatter, and they can’t both fall apart. So for once, Sam’s going to be the one who keeps it together, and gets them through this. The two of them. It’s all he’s got right now, and the thought that he might lose Dean too is more than Sam can bear to contemplate in any way, shape, or form.

The day Dean finally wakes up, Sam doesn’t know whether to cheer, or cry. His voice is hoarse, scratchy, and the first word he utters is ‘Sam’. The second is ‘Dad’. Sam can tell him Dad made it through the crash, but the look on Dean’s face when he realizes Dad isn’t there damn near breaks Sam’s heart.

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever hated his father before, but for that moment, before Dean’s face closes up and he locks the hurt away, again, Sam honestly does.

He wants to comfort Dean, but he can’t find the words, and he doubts Dean would want to hear them right now anyway. Sooner or later they’re going to have to talk about things, but Sam reckons the day Dean comes round is not the best time. It can wait; they’ll have time to discuss all the shit the demon brought out into the open later, when Dean’s fit, at least when he’s physically fit. Sam’s not planning on going anywhere, he’s going to make sure he’s there for his brother, this time.

*****

Dean hates being in the hospital; though he hates the physical therapy most, as he tells Sam frequently. Sam knows what he really hates is the fact that he can’t just walk straight out of the hospital; that he’s got to rebuild, to regain his strength. Dean hates the thought of being weak, and it makes him cranky and short tempered. Sam bears his rants and bad moods with little complaint, which earns him nothing but suspicious looks and the occasional withdrawal. It tears Sam up inside, but he can’t let Dean see that, not now, not when Dean needs all his support.

Sam’s been out of hospital for a couple of weeks now, though he still spends every day there, with Dean. He’s got them a room at a local motel; not what he wanted for Dean after his brother has spent so long in hospital, but he doesn’t know how long Dean’s going to want to stay in the area.

They haven't spoken about what happened at the cabin; about the things the demon said; about John leaving; about a whole load of stuff that Sam thinks they need to talk about. Partly because it’s hard to have a private conversation in a hospital, partly because Sam’s been reluctant to do anything to slow down Dean’s recovery, and partly because Sam’s scared, and every time he thinks about starting the conversation, he stumbles over the words and for all his education and supposed smarts, he doesn’t quite know where to start. It would be so much easier to let it go, to never mention what happened again, but Sam can’t – he needs to understand Dean, and he needs to make Dean understand him too.

The day Dean checks out, Sam’s waiting. He’s been waiting for this day, wanting to see Dean walking out of the hospital under his own steam, wanting his brother to be whole enough to leave the sterile, clinical setting.

It's awkward, at first, watching Dean wander around the room, poking about in the kitchenette, checking out the shower, testing the beds. Sam almost burns with the need to talk, with all the questions he needs answered, but he tries to wait, tries to let Dean give him an opening. If he pushes too hard, too fast, Dean'll just clam up and deflect the conversation and Sam'll be left frustrated and no wiser than before.

When Dean's finished checking out the amenities, he slumps down on the bed, tiredness radiating from him, in a way that makes Sam's chest tighten. Dean's not supposed to be this drained, this hurt, still. It reminds Sam uncomfortably of when Dean's heart was damaged. He swore then that he wouldn't be put in this position again, that he'd never let Dean be hurt like that again; stupid as that promise is, considering their line of work. It's not just the physical tiredness that bothers Sam though. Dean looks mentally drained too; he's missing that essential spark that makes him so damned infuriating at times. That scares Sam, far more than the residual physical damage. It's this that makes him speak before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself.

"Dean. We need to talk about ...things."

It pains him, to see the weariness and suspicion on Dean’s face; the way he clearly prepares himself to be hurt again. The resignation makes Sam catch his breath, shocked, by the bleakness on his brother's face. He'd been prepared for anger, frustration, hurt, but not this despair.

"You're leaving." It's more a statement than a question, and Christ, Sam wants to take back every careless word he ever said about running out on Dean, on the hunting. If he'd known how much it hurt his brother... Sam knows himself well enough to know that he'd probably have said it anyway. It shouldn't have taken Dean nearly dying to make Sam understand, but it did. Sam's not making the same mistakes again, though he's certain he'll make all new ones instead.

"No!" He tries to stay calm, to not cross the room and shake Dean for being so meek, so vulnerable, so unlike Sam's brother that it scares Sam more than facing a whole pack of werewolves or nest of vampires.

He takes a breath, searching for calm, for the ability to have this conversation without letting Dean get under his skin, for once.

"No. I'm not leaving. But Dean, we need...man, we need to talk. About the demon, about the cabin. About Dad."

Dean's face is expressionless, his eyes blank, and for a moment Sam wonders if Dean's even heard him.

"No." Dean's voice is steady, but quiet, and distant.

"What? No? Dean?"

"Nothing to talk about. Nothing's changed. Dad’s gone, the demon’s still out there, and we’ve still got things to hunt. Same old, same old.”

“Dean…”

“I'm gonna take a shower."

He's gone, bathroom door slamming behind him before Sam can argue. Sam can't say he's really surprised, he never expected getting Dean to talk to him would be easy, after all, but this is worse than he thought. They can’t carry on as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. As far as Sam’s concerned everything has changed, and he needs Dean to see that too.

When Dean emerges from the shower, Sam's ready, determined not to let Dean run this time.

"Dean..."

"So, you got anything for our next gig?"

Damn, he'd forgotten how irritating Dean's habit of talking over him could be.

"No. I really don't think you're ready to be hunting again so soon. And we really need to talk man."

"Hunting's what we do Sammy. And I told you; nothing to talk about."

"Damnit Dean! We can't just ignore what's happened. The demon, Dad leaving. I can't just pretend it didn't happen, and don't even think about trying to pretend you can either."

"Sam. There's nothing to talk about, ok? We're all alive, and Dad's off tracking the demon again and we're going to carrying on hunting until he thinks it's safe to contact us again."

It's that obvious tone of 'Dad can do no wrong' in Dean's voice that sets Sam off, despite his intentions to the contrary.

"For god's sake Dean! Dad left. He left us, left before you were even awake. He's not hunting the demon, he's running away from his responsibilities, from dealing with what happened. He's never been there for us, how can you still believe in him?"

Sam's expecting a full body slam against the wall, or even a fist heading towards his face. He's prepared for it, ready to take whatever Dean deals out, if it just gets Dean to _think_. Sam's not expecting the click of a safety being taken off, and he's certainly not expecting to be staring at the muzzle of a gun held by his brother.

"Don't ever say that again. Dad's gone because he thinks it's best, he’ll be back soon. He hasn't left me."

Dean has never, _ever_ drawn a weapon on Sam before, not even in jest. He's never even thrown a punch in anger before, not at Sam, unless Sam threw one first, and it sends a chill through Sam to see the steady aim, the cold look in Dean's eyes as he points the gun at Sam's chest. Dean's voice is hard and distant, but there's a hint of anger under the surface, and Sam can't help but remember Meg and the exorcism. This cold anger scares him more though. Sam's been afraid of a lot of things, especially of late; losing Dean, spending the rest of his life hunting the demon like Dad, but he could never have imagined that his brother would be one of them. But this Dean does scare him. Dean is many things, but he's not cold, not like this. He's always been Sam's protector, his big brother. Sam doesn't know how to handle this Dean, and he's beginning to wonder whether he really knows his brother at all anymore.

Despite the gun, Sam doesn't miss Dean's slip though. 'Me', not 'us'. As if he's expecting Sam to leave, again. Sam wishes he could tell himself that it's just Dean's insecurities, but he can't, he knows whose fault this is, who has left Dean so broken, so vulnerable. God, what have they both done to Dean?

"Dean, I... I'm sorry, ok. I just want to talk about this, ok?"

"Leave it, Sam. Dad'll be back when he thinks it's safe, and in the meantime, we do what we've always done."

But it's not enough, Sam wants to say. It's not enough, not anymore. Damnit, you nearly _died_ , and all Dad could think about was killing the demon. You were bleeding to death, and he was still thinking about the fucking demon. He'd sacrifice us all if he thought it would enable him to kill it. God, Dean, can't you see that?

The words bubble up in Sam's throat, but he chokes them down. Dean's not ready to hear them, and though Sam's pretty certain Dean won't put a bullet in him, he's not ready to test that theory right now, not when his brother is still so vulnerable, emotions scraped raw by the demon, by Dad leaving again.

It's only as Dean lowers the gun, clearly satisfied with Sam's silence, that Sam realizes the extent of the battle ahead of him. Dean's got walls the size of Texas, and Sam's going to have to chip away at them, bit by bit. He just hopes they can stay alive long enough for him to finally get through, to reach his brother, to undo the careless wounds he's inflicted.

*****

Dean turns away from his brother, flicking the safety back on the gun, and dropping it carelessly onto the bed. He hears Sam get up and head into the bathroom. When he hears the soft click of the door closing, he sinks onto the bed. Tremors run through him, and he can feel his hands shaking violently. There’s a cold, sick feeling, settling like lead in his stomach, and unshed tears stinging his eyes. He can’t believe he pulled a gun on his brother. Worse, a gun that was loaded, and had the safety off. It makes Dean feel sick to think about it.

He could tell from the look on Sam’s face that while his younger brother was shocked, he didn’t honestly believe that Dean would shoot him. Dean can’t say for sure what he was thinking at the time, but he’s not half as sure as Sam was that he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. It scares Dean that all he can remember is the sight of his hand pointing a weapon at Sammy, at the brother he loves more than almost anything else in his life, the brother he'd sworn, both to Dad and himself, to protect at any cost. It was like a nightmare, to look down a barrel and see Sam’s face pale and worried.

Shame, and a hot, sick horror flood through Dean’s body until he thinks he’s either going to scream or throw up. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels a tear splash onto his hand. Disgust and fear gnaw away at him, and he can’t help but think that it’s no wonder everyone leaves eventually.

He’s certain that Sammy will leave now, the first chance he gets. Dean’s honestly surprised that he’s stayed this long, that he didn’t leave with Dad. Dean’s tried to be grateful, tried to hold his impatience at being stuck in the hospital inside, tried not to show how much it hurt that Dad left, tried to avoid doing anything that would drive Sam away too soon. Then he goes and pulls a gun on Sam. Way to go, he thinks, Sam’s going to be out of here, away from his psycho older brother, first chance he gets. What then? Dad’s gone and god only knows when, or if, he’ll be back. Once Sam’s gone, he has no idea what he’s going to do, where he’s going to go. There’s no one to run to, no one who understands what Dean does, what Dean _is_.

Not being in contact with Sammy during the years he was away at college tore at Dean’s soul but then at least Dean had the hope that eventually Sam would come round, would come back to the family. He can’t go through that again, no way he could cope if Sam left for good. It hurts that Dad’s gone, that he couldn’t even been bothered to wait until Dean woke up before taking off, but if he loses Sam, he doesn’t think he can carry on, doesn’t think there’d be any point. Sam’s been the center of Dean’s world since Dean was four years old, and that’s never, ever changed.

But Sam’s never known when to let a thing drop; he always has to push, always has to have answers. Right now, Dean can’t face thinking about Dad, about what it means that he’s gone. He can barely deal with the memory of everything that’s happened; the cabin; the demon possessing Dad; the lingering sensation of phantom claws digging relentless into his flesh, while the thing wearing Dad’s face watched and mocked him; Sam shooting Dad; the fact that Dean can’t remember a single thing after Sam laid him gently in the back of the car, until he woke up in the hospital.

He feels fragile and brittle, like fractured glass. It feels as though all that’s holding him together is having Sam here, with him. When Sam leaves, Dean knows he’s going to shatter.

****

Sam rests his head against the bathroom door. He’s always thought of Dean as being strong, so sure of himself, but he’s starting to realize that maybe the Demon had a point. That maybe that cocky attitude covers up his vulnerability; a fragility that Dean doesn’t want to show, not even to his brother. It hurts that Dean won’t open up, but Sam knows that much as he’d like to lay all the blame at Dad’s feet, he’s guilty of taking Dean for granted too, of assuming that Dean is as tough as he makes out.

It was always too easy, growing up, to avoid seeing the truth, that Dean had built his whole life around him and Dad, around following in Dad’s footsteps. Dean’s taken on a war that was never his, and made it his own. And of the three of them, he’s the only one doing it for the right reasons. While Dad, and then Sam himself were seeking nothing more than revenge, Dean’s been helping people; drowning his own loss and pain in the fight to prevent anyone else having to go through the horror he has.

Sam’s only just beginning to realize that there’s far more to his older brother than he ever knew, so much more going on than he ever bothered to see. Would things have been different if he’d paid more attention when they were kids? Would _he_ have done things differently, if he’d allowed himself to realize how easy it really was to hurt Dean? Sam can’t honestly say he would have, and he hates knowing how casually he’s treated his brother’s feelings.

Someone needs to start thinking of Dean, start putting his feelings and needs and wants first, and since it’s not going to be Dad, Sam’ll do it. Sam doesn’t even want to chase the demon anymore if it costs Dean anything more than he’s already lost. Dad’s already asked Dean to pay the price for his obsession, Sam’s determined not to make the same mistake, especially knowing that Dean would pay it, without a second thought, if that was what Sam wanted.

He needs to start right now, needs to give Dean something good, something to make him happy, and he thinks he has just the thing. His hand drops to his pocket, and he wraps his fingers around the keys there. Time to stop lurking in the bathroom; time for them both to stop hiding from each other. If they’re ever going to make it through this, Sam needs to think more about his brother, and Dean needs to learn to open up, to let Sam in, but it’s up to Sam to make the first move, because Dean won’t. Time to let Dean know how much his brother needs him, how much Sam loves him.

Dean’s sitting on the bed when Sam leaves the bathroom, head in his hands, shoulders slumped. He’s so still, so desolate that Sam feels his anguish like a physical blow. He crosses the room, sinking to the floor in front of Dean, cautiously resting his hands on his brother’s knees, trying not to be hurt by the slight flinch at his touch.

“Dean? Man, are you ok? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Dean…”

Sam is torn by the desperate, lonely air about his brother, and when Dean makes a muffled sound, but doesn’t raise his head, Sam can’t help himself. He reaches up, and gently pulls one of Dean’s hands away from his face. Dean lets the hand fall carelessly to rest on the bed beside him, and Sam could cry. He cups Dean’s cheek, tipping his brother’s head up slightly. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased, that the tear tracks he’d half expected to see aren’t there.

“Dean, come on, look at me man, please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things.”

He can’t stop the way his thumb strokes across Dean’s cheekbone, and it scares him beyond belief that Dean allows that touch, that there’s no comment about chick flick moments, or lame jokes about Sam being a girl.

Dean’s eyes open slowly, and for just a second they glitter, as if the tears Sam was expecting are about to fall, but Sam’s more worried about the blank look he’s getting, as if Dean doesn’t recognize him. It scares him, and he’s completely lost as to what to do next.

He’s almost relieved when Dean blinks, and slowly seems to come back to himself. Sam can almost see the realization hit Dean, and he tries very hard not to let the way his brother jerks back, away from his hand, spear his heart.

“You’re still here? I thought….”

Dean’s voice is rusty, harsh and strange, as if he’s been screaming, or crying.

“What? You thought what…?” Understanding hits Sam like the proverbial ton of bricks, and shit, Dean thought he’d _left_? Dear god, this is what he and Dad have done? How the hell do you even _begin_ to erase that kind of insecurity? He doesn’t have a clue where to start, until he remembers the keys in his pocket.

“Dean. I’ve got something to show you.” He squeezes Dean’s knee lightly, ridiculously pleased that Dean doesn’t flinch this time. Actually, his brother doesn’t do anything much at all, just stares at Sam with that same slightly bleak, somewhat dazed expression.

Sam stands, and when Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t even raise his head, he grabs one of Dean’s hands, and drags his brother to his feet, glad that Dean dressed in the bathroom after his shower.

It’s both worrying, and strangely pleasing that Dean doesn’t try to pull his hand away from Sam’s, and he tightens his fingers around Dean’s, enjoying the fact that Dean is allowing this simple touch, this small intimacy. It lightens Sam’s mood, just a little. He’s not going to be really happy until he sees Dean smiling again, that huge, smug, cocky grin that he can’t believe he used to hate, but this is enough, right now.

He pulls his brother towards the motel room door, and outside, towards the parking lot, feeling hopeful for the first time in _months_.

*****

Dean feels pretty stupid, towed through the motel by the hand clasped in Sam's freakishly big paws, but Sam is so eager, so much like the enthusiastic little brother that Dean remembers that he doesn't have the heart to pull his hand away from Sam's. He'd die before he admitted it out loud, but there's something comforting about Sam's touch. Sam's warm, and solid, and while he's holding on to Dean like this, Dean can imagine that things are how they used to be, before everything fell apart.

But the closer they get to the parking lot, the more Dean has a bad feeling about what Sam's up to. It starts as a tickle in the back of his mind, like the sense he sometimes gets when a hunt's about to go spectacularly wrong. Dean vaguely remembers Sam telling him that the car had been trashed, though at the time he was so doped up on pain meds that he can't be sure it wasn't some demon induced nightmare.

Dean can cope with knowing the Impala's gone, but dear god, he doesn't want to see it; doesn't want to have to face the reality of seeing the wreckage. His life's littered with enough wreckage as it is.

Sam stops, so suddenly that Dean can't help but crash into him, nearly sending the two of them sprawling. Sam's hands steady Dean, and it hits Dean suddenly that they're standing in the middle of a motel parking lot, in broad daylight, looking for all the world like they're about to hug, or something. Dean yanks his hand away from Sam's, and steps back, trying to ignore the small wince that crosses Sam's face as he does so. There's something almost lonely about the way Sam takes a half step back, but Dean ignores it; tells himself it doesn't mean anything.

"Dean..."

He recognizes the signs. Sammy's about to head back into territory that Dean's got no intention of touching with a ten foot barge pole, let alone setting foot in. Time to head Sam off before he gets started.

"Why are we in the parking lot Sam?"

He can hear the suspicion and wariness in his own voice, but he's too tired, and too confused to even bother trying to hide it. Sam looks a little crestfallen, but he covers it well.

"I told you I had something to show you."

That sense of impending trouble is really biting now, the tickle becoming a full blown sense of panic. It makes Dean swallow, suddenly dry mouthed, makes him feel as though he can't get enough air, makes cold sweat trickle down his spine. It's like a bad dream, one where he knows what's coming next, but he can't do anything to stop it.

Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys, then turns and points towards the far side of the lot.

For a moment, Dean thinks he's had another heart attack, because he would _swear_ that his heart stops beating for a good few seconds. It's not the Impala, at least, it's not his, _their_ Impala. It's a '67, but this one is gunmetal gray, not black. The sight of it is like a slap across the face, and for an instant, Dean's not standing in a motel parking lot, he's curled up on the back seat of his car, Sam driving, _arguing_ with Dad in the front, while Dean feels his blood dripping onto the leather, wondering whether he'll ever get the stains out, then whether he'll live long enough to find out. He remembers hearing Dad telling Sam that nothing is more important than killing the demon, and meeting Sam's eyes in the mirror, and the strange combination of pride and love that swept through him when Sam told their father that killing the demon wasn't the most important thing. He can remember the impact, the unexpected, jarring force, the sudden fear; he knows he tried to call out for Sammy, but fell into darkness and demon haunted dreams without knowing if he managed to make a sound.

He's aware of Sam talking, but he can't make out the words. All he can hear is the sound of screaming metal; all he can taste is the iron tang of blood. He can see Sam, wide eyed and pale, but he's still caught in the past and it's like Sam's the dream.

Dean wrenches away from Sam. He'd run if he could, but he can barely catch his breath as it is. He's got to get away from the car, away from the memories that are pressing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic in his own skin. He's aware of Sam calling after him as he walks away, blindly. He's got no idea where he's going; hell, he can hardly remember where they are, but he's got to get away, before the tidal wave of emotions drowns him.

When the hand grabs his shoulder, he reacts purely on instinct, spinning round and throwing a punch, even as his head swims with the sudden movement, and nausea washes through him. It takes a few seconds before he realizes it's Sam he's just knocked on his ass. The sight of bright red blood spilling over Sam's lip has Dean bent over and throwing up bile and god knows what until he's convinced he's going to puke up his stomach, he's retching so hard. Somehow he ends up on his knees, the taste of his tears mingling with the taste of bile and despair and bone deep exhaustion.

****

Sam has no idea how everything went from _hopeful_ to _completely fucked up_ in the space of just a few minutes. Whatever reaction he'd expected from Dean, it wasn't the one he got. He'd watched the color drain from his brother's face and seen the look of horror and pain settle on Dean's features. He tried talking to Dean, but it was like his brother wasn't there.

He was caught by surprise when Dean suddenly pulled back and damned near ran from him. For a few seconds, Sam was so surprised he just stood there, watching his brother's back as he walked away. Then he was running after Dean, wanting, _needing_ to know what the hell was going on in that crazy brain of his brother's.

His next surprise was no better than any of the others he'd got since Dean came out of the hospital. He'd forgotten how fast Dean could move, and he'd no sooner grabbed Dean's shoulder before Dean was spinning round and a fist was connecting with Sam's jaw, catching him off balance, splitting his lip and knocking him on his ass.

The anger is swamped by concern when Dean starts throwing up. Sam's not sure what to do. Every instinct he has wants to offer Dean some comfort, but he knows that Dean hates being touched when he's ill.

It hurts to see Dean retching until he's dry heaving. Sam has no idea what happened, but it's obvious that it's had a profound effect on Dean, and Sam wants to understand. He has a sinking feeling that the new car was a bad idea, but he doesn't know why. It's only when Dean finally stops retching that Sam realizes his brother is crying, soft, heart-wrenching sobs that have Sam scrambling on his knees towards his brother, desperate to offer what comfort he can.

He's more cautious this time, though he doubts Dean is in any state to take another swing at him. His first touch is tentative, and when Dean gasps and nearly jumps, Sam _almost_ pulls his hand back. But instead, he lets his hand slide slowly up Dean's arm, over his shoulder, until he can wrap a hand carefully around the back of Dean's neck, and gently turn his brother to face him.

Dean looks utterly distraught, and Sam's horrified at the thought that somehow, this is his fault.

"God, Dean. What's wrong? What did I do? Oh Dean. I'm sorry, I didn't realize....."

Dean's no longer sobbing, but tears still spill from his eyes. He looks about five years old, and where once Sam was sure he would have teased him about it, now it just makes him want to pull Dean close, to hold him tightly until he can figure out how to put things right; how to put his brother back together again.

"The car." Dean's voice is so quiet Sam can barely hear him, has to lean closer to be sure of catching everything. "I..I remembered. The night the...the night at the cabin. I remember you and Dad arguing in the front, and I remember the crash. I...I was so scared, Sammy. I thought we were all going to die. I thought you were..." Dean sounds so broken, so young and scared and _hurt_. Christ, no wonder he freaked out. Sam had assumed that Dean wouldn't remember anything about the crash. He'd lost so much blood by then, and he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, and Sam had just thought that Dean wasn't even aware of the crash, beyond what Sam had been able to tell him later.

Sam wants to say he's sorry, but the words sound so trite and useless in the face of Dean's absolute anguish that he can't make his mouth form them. Instead he grabs Dean's shoulder, and pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around his brother, holding him so tightly he feels the shivers wracking him, the frantic beating of his heart. He aches, for Dean, for himself, for all the things they've never had, and all the things they've lost. Sam doesn't even know where to start trying to help Dean. His brother has always been so closed off, apart from rare moments of openness, so loathe to admit to any perceived weakness or vulnerability that Sam sometimes feels he has no idea who Dean really is. This may be the most emotion that he's seen Dean show in _years_ , and that's just one more thing Sam lays at Dad's door.

When Dean's arms wrap slowly around Sam, hands fisting in the back of Sam's jacket, he can't help but bury his head into Dean's shoulder, biting his lip against the tears that threaten. Dean's always been the strong one, the one who was there for Sam, yet this is the first time he's allowed Sam to return the favor. They're still walking through an emotional minefield, and he's certain that they're inevitably going to hurt each other, but if Sam can get Dean to open up, maybe, just maybe they'll find a way through it. They're never going to be entirely whole, never going to be _normal_ , but maybe they can be all right.

Kneeling in a dismal parking lot, clutching his brother too tightly, that thought is the only hope Sam has to cling to.

*****

Sam can see the first hint of dawn, breaking through the darkness. Dean's sleeping fitfully in one of the beds, limbs carelessly sprawled. By the time Sam worked up the strength to leave the comfort of his brother's embrace, it was dark, and his legs had stiffened from sitting so long on the cold, hard asphalt of the parking lot. Dean had been calmer, though he'd said nothing. Sam had taken in Dean's tear stained face and the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, and merely steered his brother back to their room. Dean had slumped onto the bed and was more or less asleep as Sam wrestled him out of his boots.

Despite his tiredness, Sam hadn't been able to sleep. He'd spent the night sitting in the lumpy armchair, just watching Dean sleep. Every so often, he made soft, snuffling noises that reminded Sam of their childhood, of hearing Dean shifting in the dark in any of the endless procession of seedy motels Dad had dragged them to.

The nightmares though, they're new. In all the years he's shared a room with Dean, he's never known his brother be troubled with bad dreams, but several times during the night he's heard Dean whimpering, making desperate, pleading noises and shifting restlessly, tangling himself in the thin sheets. Every time, Sam's crossed the room, settling on the bed and soothing Dean with soft words, 'It's ok', 'I'm here', 'I love you, damnit', and gentle hands, stroking and petting until Dean subsides and quiets again. Sam can just imagine what Dean's nightmares consist of, and he wishes, with all his heart, that he could spare Dean this.

Sam's nightmares aren't of Jess anymore. Now they're filled with breaking glass, shrieking metal, the smell of blood, the taste of fear. He no longer sees Jess' desperate, terrified face; instead he see Dean's, hears his brother plead with their father not to let the demon kill him. He dreams of being back in the cabin, pinned to the wall, unable to move, or even speak; of watching as the demon tears Dean apart, and drops his lifeless body at Sam's feet.

What scares Sam most is that the dreams feel almost like premonitions. They're not exactly the same as the ones he had before Jess was killed, but they're close. This time though, Sam's prepared. He lost Jess because he didn't pay attention, didn't heed the warning, he's _damned_ if he's going to lose Dean too. In the early morning light, watching over Dean's troubled sleep, he can admit to himself that while he loved Jess with all his heart, he loves his brother with all his soul.

He knows that he's got a mammoth task ahead of him, to convince Dean that he's not going to leave, that he finally understands that in the end, nothing is more important than family, than _Dean_ , to Sam now. It's almost a relief, to finally accept that he's never going to be normal, but to know that the one thing he'll always have is Dean. It shouldn't have taken as long as it did for him to realize, certainly shouldn't have taken Dean nearly dying, for a second time, to open his eyes.

The unexpected sound of his cell phone ringing startles him, and has him scrambling for his bag, hoping he can reach the phone before it wakes Dean. The phone stops ringing before he can find it, but Dean, apart from muttering something unintelligible under his breath, doesn't stir. Before Sam can check the caller id, the phone rings again, startling him even more, and he grabs the room key and heads out the door, answering without looking to see who's calling as he heads down the corridor.

"Yeah, um, hello?"

"Sam?"

Sam swears his heart skips a beat at the sound of his father's voice. Dad's the _last_ person Sam expected to be calling.

"Dad, yeah. Hi." Where the hell are you? Why aren't you here? What the hell have we done to Dean over the years? Has the price we've all paid really been worth it?

"How are you Sammy?" Sam grits his teeth at the name, but now isn't the time to start bitching about it.

"Fine, same as I was last time you saw me." He can hear the anger and the bitterness edging his tone, and he really doesn't care. Dean was still unconscious and hooked up to a terrifying number of machines the last time Dad saw him, and he's asking how _Sam_ is?

"Sam...." He can hear the sigh, imagine the resignation on Dad's face and he's gritting his teeth so hard now he worries briefly that he'll break one. "How's your brother?"

He takes a deep breath. Then a second.

"His name is _Dean_. And he's still breathing, yeah."

"Sam..." He can hear the warning, and the touch of frustration in his father's voice, and he doesn't care, in fact, he relishes it.

"What?"

"I had to go, you know that. I..."

"You couldn't be bothered to stay and make sure Dean woke up. Yeah, I know _Dad_."

"Sam. I love you both, damnit. You know I do."

"Yeah, well, it's a funny way of showing it. Christ, do you have any idea how much that hurt Dean? You ever think about all the shit he's having to deal with?" He can hear his voice rising, hear the anger and the slightly hysterical edge. He takes another deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"Goddamnit Sammy, I'm sorry, ok? I didn't mean to worry Dean, but he's strong, he'll be fine..."

Sam isn't sure whether to be glad or disappointed his father isn't in front of him right now, because he'd really, really like to be able to take a swing at him.

"No, damnit, he isn't strong, not right now, and he's isn't ok. How the hell would you know anyway? _You're_ not here, _you_ haven't seen how much he's hurting." He's shaking now, half repressed anger, half worry for Dean "You have no idea how much he's hurting right now Dad, and I...I don't know what to do to make it right, to repair all the damage _we've_ done to him." He's almost whispering, hating Dad for not understanding, but needing to tell someone how scared he is for his brother.

"Sammy, we haven't done anything. It's the demon.."

Sam could scream.

"No, the demon started this, but fuck, it's your obsessions, and mine, god help us, that have hurt Dean. And it's _Sam_ , damnit."

His father doesn't say anything for a long time, and Sam would think he'd hung up, if it weren't for the lack of dial tone. Sam chews his lip, waiting for something, *anything* from his father to show he understands.

"Sam." Deliberate, pointed. Typical Dad when he's in the wrong and knows it, but won't ever, _ever_ admit it. "Dean will be ok. He just needs to get back on track, get back hunting again. You'll be with him Sam, I know you'll keep an eye on him."

Disappointment. Definitely disappointment, because if Dad *were* here, Sam would certainly have punched him out for that.

"He's just got out of hospital. The last thing he needs is to go hunting."

"Sam, I know your brother. He needs to be active. I've got a simple job that'll ease you both back into things..."

"No. No way. Don't you do this to him. He's not ready. Dad, please." Sam'll plead, order, _anything_ to stop Dad doing this, because he's finally getting through to Dean and the fear that if they go off hunting again, he'll lose what ground he's gained so far is eating away at him.

His father sighs, and Sam hopes he's got through, somehow.

"It'll be ok, I promise. Can I speak to Dean?"

A cold shiver runs through Sam. A flash of premonition, there and gone too quickly for him to grasp it. He starts walking back towards the room, needing suddenly to check on Dean, to make sure he's ok. God, he shouldn't have left, what if Dean wakes up and finds him gone?

"Not right now Dad, he's sleeping. Is there any point even suggesting he call you later?" Not that Sam has any intention of telling Dean about this conversation, but Dad doesn't need to know that.

"Sammy, it's still not safe..."

" _Sam_. Fine, whatever. I've got to go Dad. Just, just think about what I said. And...be careful, ok?"

"I will Sam, and you boys take care too, you hear me?"

"Yes sir."

"Bye, and remember, I _do_ love you both, very much."

"Yeah. Bye Dad."

John hangs up, and Sam stands outside the door of the motel room, resisting the temptation to bang his head against the wood. He opens the door carefully, relieved to see Dean still sleeping, peaceful now. Sam doesn't really believe in God, but he offers a quiet prayer to any deity that might be listening, that the peace might last, this time.

****

John's been replaying his conversation with Sam, over and over, since he hung up the phone, several hours ago. It hurts that he can't be there for his sons, but it's better this way.

Sam's words stirred up a load of guilt though. He knows he really should have stayed, should have been there when Dean woke up, at least. But he couldn't face his son, not knowing what the demon had done to him, knowing that it was John's face that laughed at Dean's pain, that watched as Dean pleaded for his life.

It tore him up inside to hear the demon mocking Dean, to hear him twisting the truth and using it to hurt Dean so much, to torment and torture him; trying to drive a wedge between John and his sons. John loves both his sons, equally, though in different ways. Sam's always been easier to understand; John has always been able to see himself in Sam, it's the reason that, as Sam grew towards adulthood, they began to fight so much, both stubborn and convinced they know best. His eldest son though has always been something of an enigma to John. Always so eager to please, always so easily upset by a careless word; even as an adult, he still seeks John's approval. He tries hard to hide that sensitive side, but really, his face and eyes have always been so expressive that John could read every thought and every emotion, even when he tries hard to appear indifferent.

John's aware that in the beginning, when he started this hunt, he was harder on Dean than on Sam, pushing him harder, making him train longer, criticizing him more. But he did it with the best intentions. Dean was such a sensitive child and John knew that he'd never survive the life John was training him for unless he toughened up. When Sam was old enough to train, it had been Dean who had taken most of that responsibility, who had taught his brother everything John had taught him. It was Dean who'd patch Sammy up when he was injured, comforted him when he was distressed, as John spent more and more time away from them, hunting, trying to find something, _anything_ to fill the hole in his life and his heart that losing Mary left.

He's pleased that Sam's there with Dean, that he cares so much for his brother, it's right somehow, when John spent so long encouraging Dean to take care of Sammy, that Sam's now looking after his brother. They should be there for each other, although there's a small part of John that worries about the effects of making them depend so totally on each other. They were always exceptionally close as kids, even when they were fighting. Sometimes John would watch his sons together, and feel like an outsider in his own family. The bond between them was so strong that at times it scared John. When Sam first started hunting with them, Dean was so concerned with watching Sam's back that he sometimes forgot to watch his own. And Sam, Sam seemed to have a sixth sense where Dean was concerned. He always knew when his brother was in trouble or injured.

When Sam left, it broke John's heart to see how distressed Dean was, how much he missed Sam. It made John even angrier at Sam, at his almost casual disregard of Dean, just because Dean hadn't wanted to get involved in the argument between his father and his brother. And afterwards, when it was just the two of them, Dean changed; he became quieter, more withdrawn, a little more distant.

He hopes his boys will be ok. He knows that they've managed perfectly well up until now, but as much as he'd like to, he can't ignore the cold knot of fear that Sam's obvious distress over Dean has caused. Still, despite Sam's misgivings, he thinks that getting back into the game is just what Dean needs, to take his mind off the past, to keep him occupied and focused.

He looks again on the phone in his hand and makes his decision. He's still Dean's father and he knows him better than Sam thinks. He can't be there with them right now, but he can give Dean something. He can give him his trust in Dean's ability to cope.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes slowly, not long after Sam has crept back into the room. Sam watches his hand creep under the pillow, looking for the knife before he's even properly awake. His body tenses when he doesn't find it and Sam's throat tightens at the life his brother was forced to lead that leaves him needing to sleep with a weapon under his pillow before he feels safe. The life they both lead, because Sam only stopped sleeping with a knife under his pillow when Jess started staying the night, too afraid of hurting her to risk carrying on that family tradition. Dean snuffles again, then sits up, rumpled and looking almost as tired as when he collapsed into sleep last night.

"Hey." Sam keeps his voice soft, but it still makes Dean start a little, and it disturbs Sam that he's so distracted.

"Hey." Dean has to clear his throat before he can speak, and his voice is rusty and rough. "What time is it?"

"Early."

"Damn." Sam can't help but grin at the disgusted look on Dean's face.

"You want coffee? I can see if I can find somewhere that's open."

There's a moment pause where Sam wonders just what his brother is thinking, then Dean shakes his head.

"Nah. I'd rather go out. You want the shower first?"

Dean heads to the bathroom when Sam shakes his head, leaving Sam to think. It's surreal, the way it feels _almost_ like every other morning they've spent together since the demon turned Sam's world upside down, and yet, it's new territory. Dean's a little quieter, a little more subdued somehow, his body language still wary and closed off. Sam suspects if he hadn't seen Dean snap last night and held him while he sobbed as though his world had ended, he wouldn't have noticed. He finds it hard to believe that he was so wrapped up in his own grief that he didn't see, or didn't want to see that Dean was suffering too.

Sam knows he hasn't got through to Dean yet, that it'll take more than one night to undo all those years Dean's spent trying to be what everyone else wanted, yet never getting what he needed. The problem is that there's no easy way to approach Dean on touchy subjects, even at the best of times, and after last night, Sam's reluctant to push too hard. It nearly broke him to see Dean so vulnerable and tormented, and though he knows it's selfish, Sam doesn't know if he can go through that again, not so soon.

He's certainly not going to tell Dean about Dad's call, because Dean's just going to jump to follow Dad's orders, as always, and neither of them are ready to be hunting yet. Hell, Dean's only just got out of hospital, and even if he's more or less healed physically, mentally he's no where near strong enough. Sam takes a deep breath, fighting the surge of anger at their father for being so incapable of seeing Dean as anything but a soldier in his endless war. Sometimes Sam thinks they're nothing more than cannon fodder, though he knows it's not deliberate, it's just that Dad's never been able to see anything but his crusade. It shames Sam to realize that he was no better; both of them were obsessed, and heedless of anything but their own ruthless need for retribution.

Sam still wants the demon sent back to whatever hell it came from, but he knows that it's not going to bring Jess back, and that he's still going to be left, heart sore and mourning, and how long can he keep that up? How long before he drives away the one person he's always relied on to be there for him? It speaks volumes about Dean's loyalty and love that despite the way Sam's treated Dean at times, he's stuck by Sam, showed nothing but concern, tried to do whatever he could to help, in his uniquely Dean way. Sam's always known that Dean would die for him; in the cabin, he learned that Dean would kill for him too, and somehow, that seems so much more profound that Sam still doesn't quite know how to deal with it.

When Dean emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, the first thing Sam notices is that his skin is bright pink, as if he's run the shower almost hot enough to scald. The second are the scars left by the demon. It's the first time Sam's really seen them and he knows he's staring, but the sight catches him by surprise. They start at Dean's shoulder blade, running over his shoulder and down his chest, stopping a couple of inches above his heart. They stand out, red and jagged, ugly against Dean's otherwise remarkably unmarked skin.

It's a shockingly visible reminder of everything Dean's been through and for just a second, Sam has the urge to reach out and touch the scars, to feel the outwards signs of his brother's inner wounds, to somehow absorb some of the pain. He wants to be able to wrap his arms around Dean, to hold his brother as he did last night, without the tears and confusion, and offer some of the comfort and sense of being loved that Dean has offered him over the years. Instead, he takes a steadying breath, and heads for the bathroom Dean has vacated.

When the door is safely shut he leans against it, suddenly tired and unsure. He wants this to be over; he wants Dean to be well; he wants Dad here; he wants things to be the way they were before, only he doesn't know before what.

*****

Sam showers quickly, and it's no time at all before he's back, trailing steam and worry. It's as if he doesn't dare leave Dean alone for too long, in case he does something stupid. Considering the way last night went, Dean can't say he entirely blames his brother, but Sam's obvious concern just makes Dean twitchier, makes the unease caused by the length of time he's had to stay in this godforsaken town ten times worse. It's like an itch under his skin, gnawing away at him. He wants to be as far away from this place, and all the memories it holds as soon he can get, and the sooner the better, frankly.

He wants to be back in the swing, back hunting; he wants, _needs_ , something to drown out the words in his head, the sounds and sights and smells, and the constant, awful fear that this isn't over, not by a long shot, and that it's never going to be over. He wants something that will dim the constant pain of the scars over his shoulder; they throb with a cold ache that sometimes seems to spread through Dean's whole body until he doesn't think he'll ever get warm again.

Last night was not one of the absolute worst nights of Dean's life, but it was pretty high on the list. He knew Sam had only been trying to help, it wasn't his fault that Dean's traitorous memories had decided that was an ideal time to make themselves known. For a moment, nausea threatens again, but Dean clamps his mouth shut, swallows hard, and wills it to subside. He thinks about the gesture, about Sam going out and finding another Impala; takes deep, steady breaths; about his almost childlike excitement at showing it off to Dean. Dean feels bad that he spoiled Sammy's surprise, and he hates the fact he broke down, that Sam had to be the one to comfort Dean. He remembers being wrapped in those stupidly long arms, remembers hearing soft words that he couldn't make out. Over the years, Dean's held Sam in the same sort of hug for all kinds of reasons, from scraped knees to broken hearts. There was a familiarity and a uniqueness to having Sam hold him like that, but the solid comfort of his brother soothed Dean, and even helped to drive out the cold, at least for a while.

But the comfort he found in Sam's arms is a double edged sword. Dean's not ready to leave himself vulnerable again, not if Sam's just going to up and leave again. And if Sam goes this time, he goes for good; Dean's not going to keep giving him his heart on a plate. He's damned if he'll beg Sam to stay, no matter how much the thought of being on his own scares him, no matter how much it'll hurt to watch Sam walk away again. Bad enough Dad didn't stick around, but Dean doesn't think he'll survive losing Sammy, not this time, not if he allows himself to start hoping.

He shakes himself when he realizes that Sam is dressed, and watching him with a concerned expression. Time to stop navel gazing and get out of here before Sam gets any more bright ideas about talking. He's out of the door and halfway down the corridor before Sam even gets past "Dean...".

It's only when he hits the parking lot that he realizes. The only transport they've got is the new car. His gut clenches, and cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck. There's just no way he's going to drive that car. He can just about stomach the thought of getting in it, but it isn't his car, and he doesn't want anything to do with it beyond it getting him from one place to another. He slows, and despite himself, he can't help but be reassured and comforted by the sudden presence of Sam at his side, and the warm hand that lightly, if tentatively, touches his shoulder.

"Uh, you ok about taking the car?" Dean tries hard not to let the concern in Sam's voice get to him, but he can't help but feel a little warmed by it, and he catches himself as he leans closer to his brother, hating himself for needing that support, but totally unable to resist.

"Yeah. You're driving."

As he turns to head around the car to the passenger door, he catches sight of Sam's face, lined with tiredness and worry. It makes him look older than his years, and it makes Dean hurt with wanting to erase that pain, to make it better for Sam, somehow. Dean knows that no matter what his head thinks, his heart is always going to be Sam's. Telling himself he's not going to let Sam tear it out and stomp on it when he leaves is as futile as trying to carry water in a sieve. Sam's always been the most important thing in Dean's world, and damn him, he always will be.

The drive to the nearest diner is silent, though Dean can feel Sam sneaking sideways glances at him from time to time. He keep his face carefully turned towards the window, pretending to watch the scenery, such as it is. By the time they pull into the parking lot of the greasy looking restaurant, Dean almost feels as though nothing's changed, as though he's waking from a nightmare. If he doesn't look at the car, doesn't think about the aches and pains he's still fighting, doesn't dwell on the cold burn of the scars, he can damned near make himself believe it's fine.

He deliberately doesn't look at Sam as he gets out of the car and heads towards the diner. Then Sam's shoulder brushes his as his brother uses those stupidly long legs to catch up, and Dean again wants to just lean into Sam, to bury himself in his brother's arms and let someone else be the strong one for a change. But he ignores the urge, and speeds up, sliding into the first booth he comes across.

The diner is empty, which isn't surprising given the early hour. The waitress that comes over looks bored already, and Dean can't be bothered to flirt with her. He catches Sam giving him a worried look and rolls his eyes and shrugs. Contrary to what Sam obviously thinks, he _doesn't_ flirt with every woman he meets and even if he did, right now he's feeling too beat up in too many ways to be able to pull off his usual charm.

They're both nursing coffee when Dean's cell goes off, making them both jump. He pulls the phone from his pocket and doesn't bother checking the caller ID before he flips it open. When he sees the text, he knows instantly who it's from, and the wave of emotion that swamps him is so tangled, he couldn't say what he was feeling. Anger, disbelief, relief, confusion.

"Who is it?" There's an edge to Sam's voice that Dean can't quite place.

"Dad. He's sent co-ordinates."

*****

Sam's furious. He can't believe after everything he told Dad, that Dean wasn't ready; that _they_ weren't ready, he still goes and sends them a hunt. He'd love to be angry at Dean, but all he can feel is a weary resignation that when Dad says jump, Dean jumps, no questions asked. His rage is entirely reserved for Dad, for pushing Dean too hard, too soon; for not understanding; for not damned well being here to see how broken Dean is.

On the way back from the diner, when Dean pointedly made Sam drive, again, Sam tried asking reasonably; insisting; ordering, and finally pleading with Dean not to go. Every entreaty was met with the patented Dean glare that's meant to imply that the conversation is over. Sam's learnt the hard way that there's no shifting Dean when he's set his mind to something, but damnit, they're not ready for this.

He'd even, in desperation, hinted that if Dean went he'd be going alone. He knew the second the words left his lips that it was the worst possible thing he could have said. The way hurt flickered across Dean's face, just before his expression closed and he turned away had Sam cursing his stupidity and reaching out, wincing at Dean's flinch and the way he tries to shrug Sam off.

"Dean. I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't have said that. We're in this together, ok?"

"Yeah. Fine Sam, whatever."

The hurt is obvious, no matter how hard Dean tries to hide it, and Sam wants to offer reassurance, but he knows Dean won't want to hear it. Given his past record, Sam's not entirely sure he won't just make things worse, but he has to try.

"Dean, I'm not leaving, and you're not going on your own. I meant it, we're in this together, whatever this is. I'm not going to walk out this time, I promise." He reaches out to grasp his brother's shoulder again, and this time, Dean doesn't shrug him off, though Sam can see he's not entirely convinced by Sam's promise yet. Sam's determined to change that, however long it takes. Dean finally nods, and turns to start getting their gear together and check the weapons.

While Dean packs their stuff, Sam resigns himself to his usual role; hunting down information, trying to give his brother whatever he needs to get the job done.

Turns out this gig is a haunted stagecoach, re-enacting its last, fatal run, and picking up unsuspecting hitchhikers on the way. He's fairly certain that if he weren't so mad, he'd be amused. Dean just looks slightly disgusted when he tells him, but Sam notices the slight hint of nervousness that ripples across his face before he turns back to the guns. Sam watches him for a while; the sight of Dean cleaning and loading the weapons is so familiar, so much a part of their life that Sam never really takes much notice normally, but there's something calming, something reassuring about watching it now. Dean's hands are so sure, so comfortable, and the look of concentration on his face makes Sam smile. It's moments like this that somehow seem to typify the way Sam thinks of, and feels about his brother, and despite his worry, and his anger at Dad, Sam feels strangely hopeful. Maybe they can make this work, maybe they can find some peace this time.

Later, when they're finishing packing up and getting ready to leave, they accidentally bump shoulders, trying to get around each other in the small room. Dean flashes Sam a look, then grins, a genuine, open smile and bumps Sam back, like they were kids again. Sam doesn't remember when he felt so honestly happy and so glad to be with Dean, because there is no-one who has ever known Sam in the way Dean does, and even though Sam hated the hunting, hated the life they lead, the one thing he'd never change is Dean. His older brother can be infuriating, sarcastic, condescending, obnoxious, overbearing and downright frustrating, but he's been the constant in Sam's life, and he's never, _ever_ really let Sam down. He just hopes that when the time comes, he can do the same for Dean, and with a faint shiver of foreboding, he wonders if that time is closer than he thinks.

*****

Dean's glad to be back on the road again. He's always gotten restless when he's had to stay in one place too long, and the town that's no longer even a speck in the rear window holds memories that Dean would just as soon forget.

He's not sure how he feels yet about Dad sending them on a hunt. It still hurts that Dad isn't here, that he can't even make the effort to call, but Dean knows that he'll do what he thinks best, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Dean's never really understood why Sam has such a problem with that, it's not like Dad's ever been any different.

Sam's driving, and Dean's slumped down in the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable in a car that's both familiar and unknown. It looks like his car, but it feels so totally different. The Impala was Dean's most prized possession. He'd loved that car since the day Dad bought it, and the day Dad gave it to him was one of the happiest memories Dean has. Despite what Dad thinks, Dean'd always taken good care of it; he'd loved the creak of the doors, the throaty roar of the engine; he'd even loved the old fashioned tape deck. Unlike the weapons, the Impala was more than a tool of his trade; more than just a symbol of Dean's independence. He felt safe in that car, secure, powerful, confident.

The new car offers him none of that, and though he wanted to like it, to feel at least comfortable in it, for Sam's sake, he just couldn't feel the same way about it as he had the Impala. The thought of driving this car leaves him feeling shaking, terrified, fighting ghosts and memories he can never quite escape. It's stupid and it pisses Dean off because how the hell can he be scared of a fucking _car_ for god's sake? But no amount of telling himself that is helping.

The car doesn't even sound like the Impala, though Dean doubts anyone else would notice it. It doesn't lull him in the way the Impala did, the steady thrum of the engine doesn't seep into his bones and calm him like the old car. It's wrong, off and it makes Dean jumpy and tense. He just wants to be hunting, wants something he can shoot, or even better, beat to a pulp; something he can take his frustration and anxiety out on.

There's no music playing; all of Dean's tapes were lost in the crash and he's had no time to replace them, isn't even sure if he wants to; they're just another reminder of what's gone and frankly, Dean's sick of the past; sick of the hold it seems to have over his family.

He sneaks a look at Sam. Sam had been obviously mad as hell at Dad sending them co-ordinates, and while he's never liked the way Dad does things, this time it seemed to be something more, but whatever it is, Sam's not saying, and Dean's damned if he's going to ask him and get shot down. Sam's threat to leave makes the cold inside Dean burn worse, like an icy fist around his guts, and he hates that Sam can do that to him, even now, even as he knows that it's always going to be this way. There is nothing Dean won't do for Sam, _nothing_ , and as much as it frustrates him, he wouldn't have it any other way. The clash of shoulders in the hotel room and the way Sam looked so happy, so carefree, just for a moment, make everything that Dean has to go through for his brother seem worthwhile. It's as sappy as hell, and Dean would certainly deny it if ever asked, but that doesn't make it any less true.

At least he's got Sam here with him. Dean isn't entirely convinced that Sam meant what he said about not leaving, but it's something to cling to, something to help warm him, even if it doesn't last.

He tries to make himself comfortable, knowing they've got a hundred miles or so to go yet, trusting Sam to get them there in one piece. He ignores the vague sense of unease, of fear that maybe he isn't ready for this yet. He has to be ready; they have a job to do, and he can't afford to screw up something so simple over a bout of nerves.

Dean shivers, and Sam looks over, concern obvious on his face. Dean shrugs, and turns to look out the window, swallowing down his sudden sense of apprehension.

*****

The crappy motel they check into in the crappy, middle-of-nowhere town is exactly like the crappy motel in the middle-of-nowhere town they just left. They're the latest in a long line of crappy motels and middle-of-nowhere towns, stretching back as far as Sam can remember. He's hated them all, and this one's no exception.

It's always the same lumpy beds, 70's wallpaper, ancient, noisy coffee machines, chipped cups and the smell of cooking and stale sweat. But when he looks at Dean, remembers the gut-wrenching fear of losing his brother, of never seeing Dean smirk, or laugh, or hearing him make smart-assed remarks again, suddenly the surroundings don't seem to matter quite so much anymore.

During the time he was waiting for Dean to regain consciousness after the crash, Sam came to the realisation that his world was never going to be normal again. That understanding doesn't make him angry anymore, it just leaves him a little sad, and maybe a little wistful. This isn't the life Sam wants, but right now it's Dean's life, and Sam thinks maybe he can deal with it, for Dean's sake, because he meant what he said; he's not leaving this time. The demon was wrong, he does need Dean, just as much as Dean needs him, and he's going to try not to screw things up this time.

It's nearly dark when they check in, and they're both tired and hungry. The information Sam managed to dig up on this hunt indicates that the stagecoach only appears once a year, on the anniversary of the fatal crash, and that's not until tomorrow night, so they've got time to kill. Neither of them seem keen on going to check out the site tonight, so when Dean suggests they get something to eat and call it a night, Sam's only too happy to agree.

The diner is depressingly familiar too, but Sam keeps his mouth shut about it for once, and scans the menu, hoping against hope that there's going to be something original on there. He's disappointed, of course.

When the sour faced waitress has taken their order, Sam watches Dean. Seeing the tiredness in Dean's face reminds Sam how mad he is at Dad. He bites back angry words though, knowing Dean won't listen anyway, and not wanting to start another fight. But Dean's always been able to read him far too well.

"What's eating you now, Sammy?"

There are so many possible answers to that, that Sam doesn't even know where to start, but that's fine, because it seems his mouth does, when it starts talking without checking with his brain first.

"Look, I meant what I said earlier, ok? About not leaving. Dean... things have changed. I know I used to think that all that mattered was finding Dad and the demon." He has to pause, remembering the blood and the pain on Dean's face, and his desperate pleas for Dad not to let the demon kill him. "But I realized that finding the demon isn't worth it if I'm going to end up losing more important things on the way. It...it scared me Dean, when you wouldn't wake up. I...I didn't know what I was going to do if you didn't come 'round."

Sam watches his brother carefully, aware that he's probably said far too much, but he's relieved to have told Dean this, to have cleared the air.

Dean looks a little sad, a little hopeful, and more than a little scared and Sam wonders again how he and Dad could have done this much damage without realising.

"Sam..." There's so much emotion in the way Dean says his name that Sam's breath catches, shocked and thrilled at the same time.

When Dean suddenly reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, Sam lets out the breath he's been holding, only to catch it again when Dean's hand shifts, gently cupping Sam's face, and running a thumb over his cheekbone, so lightly it's barely touching the skin. Sam's just starting to lean into that entirely unexpected and uncharacteristic touch, when Dean pulls his hand away, leans back in his seat and smirks. Sam misses the touch, but he's also relieved to see the old Dean back at last, even if he still irritates the fuck out of him.

"...you're such a girl."

Classic Dean, but Sam can still feel the gentle touch on his face, so he lets it ride for now, just grinning back at Dean, and feeling a small surge of triumph when Dean's smirk slips a little, presumably in disappointment at not getting a rise out of Sam.

He has the feeling that something important just happened, but he can't quite grasp what it means. But if it makes Dean happy, he can go with it.

Sam has strange dreams that night. He's sure that Dean was there, and maybe Dad too. He can't remember anything specific when he wakes, just a lot of jumbled and indistinct impressions that grow hazier and more vague as he struggles to remember them.

Breakfast is subdued. Dean's never been a morning person, and today he's once again withdrawn and quiet. Sam misses the banter and the closeness of the previous evening, but he's more concerned about the hunt. Usually Dean is eager, excited even, by the prospect of hunting, and his apparent indifference makes Sam uneasy. He's more sure than ever that this is a really bad idea, but when he mentions it to Dean, all he gets is an eye roll and a sigh.

The site of the haunting is straight out of some half-assed ghost story. Narrow road, surrounded by woods, old fashioned stone bridge where the coach crashed into the now dried up river. Sam didn't think this kind of set up existed outside of a film set.

The plan's simple enough; stake out the bridge tonight, make sure no unsuspecting victim gets a ride he didn't bargain for, see if they can figure out why this particular example of middle-of-nowhere is playing host to a haunted stagecoach, then make sure this is it's last journey. Easy, or so Dean reckons. Sam can see the apprehension that Dean's trying to hide, and it's not helping his sense of disquiet.

They spend the rest of the day in the library.

"So, the coach driver went psycho and drove off the bridge on purpose?"

"Yeah, and it looks like they never found the body of one of the passengers. I'm guessing he's the one who's behind the haunting."

"Great. So we're going to have to make sure nobody hitches a last ride tonight, then go hunting for the bones to salt and burn?"

Dean perks up when he talks about burning, and sometimes, Sam worries about his brother's unhealthy fascination with fire. At least on this hunt, they'll be able to take their time finding the bones, rather than their usual rush.

Dinner is early, while the sun is low in the sky. By the time they're gathering their stuff, ready to head out to the bridge, dusk is falling, staining the sky red. Sam watches the dying light, trying to ignore the symbolism of blood red fading into black.

The late November night is cold and unnaturally quiet as they drive out towards the bridge. Sam is driving, again. He tried to persuade Dean to drive, but his suggestion was met with a flat out 'no'. It wasn't the cold, emotionless tone of Dean's voice that made him drop the subject though, but the sudden flare of panic, then distress in Dean's eyes. Sam knows the car brought back a whole heap of memories for Dean, and he can only imagine how bad they must be for Dean to give up control of the driving, but running away from the whole issue isn't going to help. He knows that pushing Dean over this isn't going to get him anywhere though. Dean can be a stubborn bastard when he wants and Sam just doesn't want to get into a battle of wills over a _car_. He can only hope that Dean will deal with whatever he needs to and get over this irrational fear in his own time. Sam snorts to himself. Deal with it? Dean? More likely he'll just bury it away, with everything else he doesn't want to face. Sam can only hope this is one thing that won't come back and bite them in the ass.

Though, the way their luck goes, he's not counting on it.

****

In a shining example of why fate hates them, just before the bridge, they see the inevitable, unsuspecting victim apparently required in virtually every haunting. Dean has always thought that their lives would be so much easier if people actually paid attention to the golden rules of horror films; don't enter haunted houses (and stay away from haunted asylums); don't wander off alone; and if your car runs out of gas, or stalls unexpectedly, stay in the damned vehicle, _particularly_ when it's on a haunted stretch of road.

"Dean..."

"Yeah, I see him. Man, why do we always have to rescue the idiots as well?"

"Luck, I guess."

"Figures."

Sam leaves the engine running, but gets out of the car, shivering in the chill wind, a light mist swirling around his legs as he heads for the guy walking along the road towards them.

Dean watches Sam, wishing he'd hurry up and just get the damned kid out of the way, because the coach is due any minute now, if the old reports are correct. He sticks his head out of the window.

"Sam. Move it!"

Both Sam and the idiot look over at him, and then they all spot the vague and shimmering ghost coach. Which is around the time the shit really hits the fan.

Dean really hates it when the people they're trying to help freak out on them and the kid's having a fairly impressive fit about now, arms flailing and eyes wide. It'd be amusing, if he and Sam weren't still in the path of the coach, which was now way too close for Dean's liking.

"Sam, damnit, move your ass!"

Dean's getting that tickle, the one that usually means that everything is about to go wrong again.

The coach is picking up speed, and starting to look less ghostly and more like the real thing as it heads towards Sam and the kid, and the tickle shifts into the beginning of a full blown panic.

The coach is only a few yards away from the car now and without thinking, Dean dives into the driver's seat, desperate to get to Sam before the coach does. Sam shoves the kid, sending him tumbling to the side of the road and the coach is almost on top of Sam. Dean throws the car into drive, but as he grips the wheel too tightly, all he can hear is the sound of buckling metal, the iron tainted tang of blood, and the gut-wrenching fear of dying, of losing Sammy.

He snaps back to the present, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel they're aching, full blown shakes wracking his body, horrified as he sees the coach heading for Sam. He's shaking so bad he can barely control the car, but he slams the accelerator to the floor, despite knowing he's going to be too late, that his hesitation may just have cost Sam his life, but he has to try, because if Sam's not with him, he's got nothing left to live for. If Sam dies because of Dean's fuck up, he doesn't want to go on.

He's barely aware of the kid, hightailing it away from them as fast as he can; Dean's got eyes for nothing but the coach as it reaches Sam. He sees a skeletal hand reach out, grab Sam, and drag him into the now solid coach.

Dean's hands are slipping on the wheel, slick with cold sweat, and he feels as though he's going to be sick. He's still far too far from the coach, and the coach is too near the bridge for him to reach it, even if he knew how to stop it.

The moment the coach swerves towards the bridge wall is worse than the moment Dean realized that mom was gone. The sick sense of despair, of loss, of desperate, stomach churning fear is unlike anything Dean's ever felt before. There's a long, endless moment as the coach flickers between being solid and transparent, as it passes through the wall of the bridge, then tumbles, eerily silent, over the edge and down towards the dried river bed, fifty feet below.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's mind is stuck on an endless loop of 'no' and 'Sammy'. He can't believe he just watched the coach carrying his baby brother crash over the bridge. He doesn't remember stopping the car, or getting out, but as he walks towards the bridge, towards the point where the coach disappeared into the gully, he knows he's never going to forget a single step; guilt and despair and grief make his heart twist, and leave him tasting bile, as his eyes blur with tears he doesn't even notice spilling down his cheeks.

Anguish drives him to his knees, his forehead bumping the rough stone wall. He doesn't notice the small pain, nor the cold of the night. All he can feel is the gaping hole left by losing Sammy. A hole that Dean knows nothing is ever going to fill. He's never felt despair like this before, never felt so empty and alone. Even when Sam went to college, Dean knew he was there, knew Sam was only a day's drive, or a phone call away, even if he never actually drove over, or called him. To know his brother's gone, for good, is just more than Dean can stand.

****

Sam hauls himself back over the edge of the bridge. He's furious. Angry with the stupid kid for being in the wrong place at the wrong time; with Dad for sending them on this hunt before they were ready; and with Dean, for fucking up and forcing Sam to leap out of the coach as it toppled into the gully. He's bruised, scraped, cold and seriously going to shake his brother until Dean’s teeth rattle.

Then he sees Dean, on his knees, head resting against the wall of the bridge. He looks surreal and almost supernatural himself, his form back lit by the car headlights. Anger gives way to concern, and as Sam gets closer, concern turns to distress when he sees the silent tears leaving trails down Dean's face. He's throwing himself to his knees beside his brother before he realizes it.

"Dean. Oh, Dean."

He knows exactly what Dean thought. That he went over with the coach. That he'd died.

Dean lifts his face to look at Sam, and it breaks Sam’s heart to see Dean like this; broken, despairing, lost. He doesn’t quite know what to do, what to say, so he just gathers his brother’s trembling body against his, wraps his arms around Dean and just holds on. It’s the most natural thing in the world to press his face into Dean’s neck, to whisper soothing words against the soft skin and scratchy stubble, to turn his head as Dean turns towards him, until his lips meet Dean’s, almost accidentally. It’s nothing more than a soft brush of lips at first, until Dean’s lips part, and then they’re kissing properly; wet and slow and tasting of salt from Dean’s tears.

It’s slow and delicate and so utterly unlike Dean that Sam can barely recognize the man in his arms. Dean’s the one who’s breaking, and yet he still treats Sam like something precious, something to be treasured. It makes Sam want to repay that devotion, makes him want to shake Dean for putting everyone else first, makes Sam want to give him everything his heart desires, everything that’s in Sam’s power to grant him.

Sam could stay like this forever, trading slow, sensual kisses that warm his heart, even as they start to fire his blood. It should feel so very wrong, but god help him, it doesn't. It feels like they've been heading for this their whole lives, and if there is a hell, Sam would gladly burn there for eternity, so long as he never has to give this up.

Dean's hands are wrapped around his biceps, tight enough to bruise, and Sam doesn't care. Dean's already left his mark on Sam, a long time ago. The kiss that started out so soft and gentle is changing, becoming heat and passion, driven by fear and grief. Sam doesn't know which of them is moving, trying to get closer to the other; maybe they both are. He runs gentle hands down Dean's back, feels his brother wrap a hand around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair.

And god, he doesn't want to stop kissing Dean, because fuck, he needs this like he needs to breathe, and Dean kisses like he does everything else; all focused intent, and deadly concentration. He doesn't want to stop, but his knees are aching and the temperature has dropped considerably, and he just wants to get them into the car, doesn't care that the back seat is a cliché, he just _wants_.

He pulls his mouth away from Dean's with an effort, then gasps and shudders when his brother's mouth moves down to his neck, licking and sucking and biting, and Christ, Sam's half tempted to just stay right where he is as long as Dean keeps doing that. In the end, he manages to marshal enough will power to pull away, heart clenching at the sudden panic in Dean's face, and the way his brother's hands dig into his skin, trying to hold on to him as he stands.

Fuck, even now, Dean thinks he's going to leave. _Oh god, Dean, I'm not going to leave. You're all I've got, all I want, I love you, damnit. I want you._

Sam pulls Dean to his feet, and kisses him again, slow and hot, trying to chase away the fear and the loneliness they both know far too well. This is so fucked up, but they need this so much Sam doesn't care anymore.

He walks slowly towards the car, still kissing Dean, guiding his brother backwards, and Dean lets him; trusts him to take care of him, and Sam loves him even more for it. Trust is the most precious thing Dean has to give, bar his heart, and Sam thinks maybe he already has Dean's heart; maybe he always did, he just didn't know it.

They bump into the car, and Sam can't help himself. He presses up against Dean, feeling the lines of solid muscle shift against him; feeling the hard line of Dean's cock, pressing against his hip. Jesus, that's good, the little whimper that escapes Dean as Sam thrusts gently against him. It's every wet dream about Dean that Sam's never had, and even if he had ever thought of this, he's certain his fantasy would never have felt so desperately sensual, so agonizingly emotional, so seriously hot.

Dean's shifting restlessly against him, hips arching to meet Sam's shallow thrusts. Dean has one hand on his face, stroking over his cheekbone, while the other rests on Sam's ass, pulling him closer, as if Dean wants to climb inside him. Dean's mouth moves over Sam's jaw, stubble catching on stubble, making Sam shiver. Hot lips and slick tongue slide down his neck again, and Sam needs to get them horizontal _now_ , before he's rendered incapable of any thought at all.

He fumbles for the handle, unable to pull away from Dean for even the few seconds it would take to look at what he's doing. He completely loses his train of thought when Dean nuzzles into the crook of his neck, tongue moving over his skin, hot and wet and feeling like sin given form. He finally gets the door open, but has absolutely no idea how he's going to maneuver them around the door and into the back. When Dean suddenly sinks his teeth into his neck, he can't stop the gasp and growl, nor the way his hips buck into Dean. The groan Dean gives, breath tickling over damp, sensitive skin, and the way his hands tighten and his body arches into Sam's is so fucking hot that Sam wonders how he's ever lived without knowing this. Need and necessity overtake rational thought, and as Dean lifts his head and drags Sam back into a wet, sloppy kiss, Sam drags them around the back door, and then he's pressing Dean into the car, guiding him down onto the back seat, following him all the way down, the symbolism not entirely lost on him.

Dean's hands cup his face, and despite the obvious desire, his brother's eyes are soft with devotion, still clouded by fear and loss, but his gaze is open, vulnerable, _trusting_ and god, Sam can only hope that he's going to be worthy of that trust; that he isn't making a mistake by binding them together even tighter. He can only hope, because nothing on earth, not thoughts of laws, nor morals, nor right or wrong could make him stop now, not when Dean's pulling him down, spreading his legs awkwardly, so that Sam's stretched out over him, weight propped on the hand that's gripping the back of the seat.

Sam can feel the tremors that still shake Dean's body, and he doesn't know if they're desire, or a residue of Dean's earlier scare, or both. He wants to wipe that fear away, wants to give Dean something real to hold onto, wants to drive out the cold he sometimes sees in Dean's eyes when he thinks Sam isn't looking.

Dean's hands are busy, sliding from his face to stroke over his shoulders, under Sam's jacket, sliding it off his shoulders until Sam has to kneel, bent damn near in half to pull it off, hampered by the confines of the car. Warm hands worm under his t-shirt, fingertips ghosting over the skin of his sides, his ribs, teasing touches over his nipples, making him squirm and suck in a breath. He drags the shirt off, shivering as the cold air from outside hits the bare skin of his back. He'd like to shut the door, leave them cocooned in the warm isolation of the car, but there's barely enough room as it is.

His brother sits up, lips and tongue following the path of his hands, making Sam arch towards him, forcing desperate moans from his lips. A gentle bite to his nipple makes Sam curse, and breaks his temporary immobility under Dean's touch. He fumbles and scrambles, and drags Dean's jacket and shirt off with indecent haste.

He slows himself, deliberately, sorrow catching him at the sight of Dean's scars, the outward sign of the wounds left on his brother's heart and soul. Dean shudders, a broken sob escaping him as Sam traces the angry marks with his fingers. Dean turns his head away, as if afraid of Sam's reaction, so he leans forward, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to the damaged flesh, moving until he's kissing Dean's neck, up over his jaw, until he can catch his brother’s mouth with his.

The pace is slow as they share long, gentle kisses, right up to the point where Dean unexpectedly sinks his teeth into Sam's lower lip, hard enough to sting. It makes Sam jerk, and flicks the switch from patient to frantic.

He's not sure whose hands are shaking more as they undo buttons and zips, stripping off boots and denim; limbs tangling, and leaving even more bruises in their haste. Sam can't resist licking and nibbling Dean's neck, enjoying the way Dean squirms beneath him, one leg trapped between Sam's body and the car seat, the other curling up around Sam's hip and thigh.

"Sam. Oh _fuck_... Glove compartment. Oh..."

Christ, Dean's voice is rough, deeper than normal, and just god, the sexiest thing Sam's ever heard, and hell's looking like more and more of a certainty.

"What...?" It's nothing more than a mumble against Dean's skin, raising goose-bumps and making Sam pant as hard as Dean when his brother hisses and arches, cock rubbing against Sam's.

"Gun oil, damnit. Oh Jesus, Sam..."

The reality of what Dean's implying hits Sam like a sledgehammer. Fear and desire war in his head, but lust wins, because _damn_ , just the thought of what Dean appears to be suggesting is enough to have Sam moaning.

"Dean. God, you want me to... Oh fuck."

"Yeah. Just get the damned oil."

It's a wrench, to pull himself away from Dean, away from the heat of his brother's skin, but he scrambles for the front seat, leaning over to dig through the glove compartment until he finds the familiar bottle.

Dean looks utterly debauched, naked and spread over the back seat of the car, tanned skin against cream leather, cheeks a little flushed, eyes bright, pupils so dilated his eyes look black. The way he's looking at Sam, all heat and need and dear god, _love_.

It's utterly surreal, kneeling between Dean's legs, watching the muscles in his thighs shift and flex, seeing one hand, slick with oil stroke his brother's cock slowly, while the other slides behind his balls, and presses carefully into Dean's body. The way Dean twists, breath stuttering past his lips, skin shining with sweat despite the cold air makes Sam's cock twitch. He's caught between watching his fingers sliding deep into the heat of his brother's body, and watching the open pleasure on Dean's face.

It could be minutes, or hours, Sam honestly can't tell, before Dean opens his eyes and looks at him with a mixture of arousal and annoyance that at any other time might be amusing.

"Damnit, Sammy. Just do it.. please."

It's the please, the desperate, needy plea in Dean's voice that undoes Sam, and he's pressing Dean down, grabbing a thigh and spreading Dean open even more. It's uncomfortable and awkward in the back seat, but Sam doubts he'd care if they were on a bed of nails as he slides into Dean. It's dark and addictive, the way Dean groans, like he's dying; the way his body clenches, then relaxes around Sam; the mix of pain and pleasure that twists his face; the way his hands cling to Sam like a lifeline.

Sam buries his face in Dean's neck, fucking Dean in slow, deep thrusts. It feels as though they've done this a thousand times; it feels so right, so necessary, so profound that Sam never wants it to stop. Inevitably though, his body takes over, and he drives harder, struggling to find the purchase to move faster, driven on by Dean's gasps and breathless words of encouragement.

Dean squeezes a hand between their bodies, stroking his cock as best he can given the cramped space, and the thought of Dean touching himself while Sam's taking him, fucking him, drives Sam crazy, and he somehow manages to get his knees beneath Dean's thighs, pulling his brother's hips half off the seat, bracing his weight on hands either side of Dean's head, shuddering when Dean wraps his legs around his waist.

He's almost afraid he's hurting Dean, but the look on Dean's face, the way his brother is biting his lip reassure him that if it hurts, it's a good hurt. And oh god, the noises Dean's making, whimpers and shocked, desperate gasps. He can feel the knuckles of Dean's hand brush against his stomach as his brother strokes his cock, and fuck, that makes his gut clench and his cock twitch.

The moment Dean comes, muscles locking, body tightening, head arching back to expose his neck is damn near soul shattering; Sam doesn't think he's seen anything so perfect. It's mere seconds later when his own orgasm catches him by surprise, so sudden and so strong that he can't breathe for several seconds.

They're both trembling now, slick with sweat, still panting. Dean shifts, and can't quite hide the wince as Sam's cock slips out. Sam's glad for the first time that this isn't Dean's precious car, because he's fairly sure that semen and leather are a bad mix. Dean shoves at him, until he can get them both lying on their sides on the seat, facing each other. It's cramped and Sam's skin is sticking to the leather already, but he doesn't care, not when Dean's holding onto him, pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder and neck.

"You ok?" Sam winces at the sound of his voice; he sounds like he's been shouting for hours, and it's nothing like the sexy rasp Dean had earlier.

Dean doesn't say anything for several minutes, though he tightens his grip on Sam, and Sam begins to worry. He'd assumed Dean was ok with this, assumed he wanted, _needed_ it as much as Sam did, but what if he hadn't, what if he'd only done it because it was what Sam wanted?

Dean's voice is quiet, muffled a little because he doesn't lift his head from Sam's neck.

"I thought you'd died. Oh god." Dean's voice breaks, and Sam can hear the terror. "I don't want to go on if you're dead. And it would have been my fault. I froze. Sammy, oh god... I thought you were dead...."

Oh. Oh _fuck_.

"Dean, don't, please. I'm here, I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Dean, it's ok. It'll be ok. I love you, I'm here."

"Don't want you to leave Sam. I need you." Dean's voice is soft, and desperate, shattered.

"It's ok. We'll get through this."

He clings to his brother, sated and scared and worried and more content than he's been for _months_. He hopes he hasn't made promises he can't keep. He knows it's not going to be easy; Dean's still as broken as ever, and Sam's real concern is that this could just make things worse, but he can't, _won't_ regret it, wouldn't change it for anything. They're just going to have to deal with it. Hell, in the grand scheme of their lives, it's hardly the worst thing they've ever faced.

****

They lie, pressed together on the back seat for what feels like a long time to Dean. His body is heavy, sated, relaxed in the way only really good sex achieves, but his mind is still reeling.

Dean's not certain what he should be feeling. He'd be the first to admit that he's not great on emotions at the best of times, and in any event, he's pretty sure there are no guidelines for what happens after your brother's just fucked you damn near senseless, and watched you fall apart in front of him, again.

What he certainly isn't feeling is any trace of guilt, or shame, or regret. He's aware that what they've done is illegal, and definitely wrong in most people's eyes. Dean couldn't give a flying fuck what other people think, and he's never worried much about laws that don't apply to his family anyway. He does care what Sam thinks though. This is about as far from the normal that Sam's wanted as you can get, and Dean can feel the cold knot of fear sitting in his chest. Thinking Sam was dead was the worst thing Dean has ever experienced, but watching Sam walk away after this, would come a damned close second.

Despite the fact that Sam certainly didn't seem to have any reservations earlier, when he was pressing Dean down into the back seat of the car, driving into him, hard and fast and dirty, Dean still can't quite believe that Sam will stay. It's more than Dean dare hope for and more than he could bear to lose.

It's enough to make him tremble. He feels broken, cracked wide open and vulnerable in a whole new and completely shitty way. His mind seems to skate between the fear and horror and utter despair of thinking Sam was dead, to the shocking, slightly hysterical relief of seeing his brother in front of him, to the surreal, unexpected feel of Sam's lips on his. He'd clung to that touch, to Sam, like a lifeline. The feel of Sam's body pressed against his, of Sam's touch, Christ, the feel of his brother's cock inside him. God, but Dean can't regret that, no matter how this turns out.

 _'I love you'_. Sam's words keep rattling around in Dean's head. It's not the first time Sam'd said them, but Dean could hear new layers of meaning in his brother's voice this time.

He shivers, telling himself it's just the cold night air. Sam shifts, stroking a hand down his arm, making Dean shiver for an entirely different reason, and damn, if that isn't seriously fucked up.

"We should probably get dressed and get back to the motel." Sam's voice is soft, and the unease and regret Dean expected to hear isn't there. His brother sounds uncertain, but not disgusted.

When Dean doesn't answer Sam moves again, trying to dislodge Dean's face from where it's buried against his neck, and Dean briefly considers resisting, staying where he is so he doesn't have to face Sam like this, knowing every scraped raw emotion is going to be showing on his face. But he knows Sam, and he's only going to buy himself a few extra minutes, at most.

"Dean?"

He lifts his head, ignoring the spike of sick fear at what he'll see in Sam's face. The expression he sees is not the one he expected. Despite the obvious concern, Sam looks calm, almost content, and Dean has absolutely no idea what that means. Since he stepped out of the hospital, his world's been turned inside out, and nothing seems to be the same. It leaves him feeling out of place, uncertain, confused, and not a little scared.

"Hey, you ok? Dean, talk to me man, you're freaking me out here."

He blinks, and realizes that Sam's hand is stroking his cheek, and now Sam just looks worried.

"Why aren't you...?" Dean's voice breaks, and he hates himself for that weakness. He clears his throat, dropping his gaze from Sam's face. "You're ok, with _this_?" It's not really what he wants to ask, but it's close enough.

"I...yeah. I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't ever think about..." Sam trails off, and Dean can imagine the awkward expression, and the faint blush on Sam's face. Some other time, it'd amuse the hell out of Dean, but right now, this is too important to laugh. "But yeah, I'm ok with this. A little, uh, stunned, but I'm good." Nervous pause, then "Are you... are you ok with this?"

And really, Dean has absolutely no fucking idea how to answer that. Because he's not entirely sure what _this_ is, let alone how to deal with the fact that Mr I-want-to-be-normal apparently doesn't have any issues with fucking his older brother. There's a small voice in the back of Dean's head that tells him he should be grateful that Sammy isn't freaking out right now, because there's no way Dean could deal with that.

"I..." Great, again with the girly voice and shit. Damnit, get a grip Dean. If Sam can deal, so can you; don't fuck this up anymore than it already is. "I think so, yeah."

"Oh. Good." Sam shifts away, and Dean can't help the way his hand twitches, fingers digging into Sam's arm briefly, before he can stop them. He hears Sam's slight intake of breath, and a cold wave of panic slices through him. He forces himself to unclench his hand, and draw it away from Sam.

Sam doesn't let him, though. He catches Dean's hand and holds it tightly.

"It's ok. We'll be ok." Sam sounds so certain, so sure. Dean wishes he could believe that easily, but he can't. He wants this too much to believe he's going to be allowed to keep it. He feels afraid, and suddenly angry. He yanks his hand back, and shoves Sam away, sending him sliding off the seat. He sits up, trying to remember where the hell his clothes went.

"For how long, Sam? Until you decide you want normal again? Because I hate to tell you, dude, but fucking your brother is definitely _not_ normal. What happens when you want to go back to your apple pie life? What happens to me? How the hell am I supposed to keep going...." He hates the way his voice shakes, the obvious desperation, and fear.

Sam's naked, sprawled on the floor of the car, looking startled, and hurt and dear god, debauched and utterly fuckable. Damnit, Dean's angry at Sam for adding yet another layer of confusion and potential misunderstanding to their already damaged relationship, even though he knows he's as much to blame as Sam. He didn't stop Sam, damn near ordered his brother to fuck him, because Dean wanted it, wanted one thing for himself.

He's trembling, cold and sick to his stomach, and he _knows_ he's being unreasonable but he can't stop. If Sam's going to go, better he goes now, before he gets even more of a hold on Dean's heart.

"God, Dean, if I could take it all back, every time I said I wanted to leave, I would. I'm sorry." He reaches out, one hand catching Dean's and lacing their fingers together, while the other slides up Dean's arm, and tugs him down, until somehow, he ends up in Sam's lap. "Damnit, Dean, stop it. Stop pushing me away. I'm not gonna leave. What the hell is it going to take to convince you?"

"I don't know, ok?" His breath catches, and he can feel the hysteria building up again, but he takes a deep breath and forces it down. "It's just, fuck, Sam, you up and leave like it's nothing, and you never think about those of us you leave behind. It feel like we don't matter enough, like we're not good enough for you."

"I never thought that Dean, I never...that wasn't the reason I left. I was only going to college, Dean..."

"And would you have come back after? Gone back to hunting? Or was Dad telling you to go for good just the excuse you needed?" Dean can hear the bitterness in his own voice, and he doesn't care. He's just so tired of fighting.

"I just...I was stupid, ok? I shouldn't have tried to cut you out of my life. I just, I never thought I was hurting you so much. Oh man, I'd never have been such a bastard if I'd realized. I'm sorry, I won't make that mistake again, I promise."

Sam's voice is close to breaking too, and Dean has to close his eyes. It's too much and he just wants to get away, wants to put some distance between them, but Sam's holding him too tightly. The panic, and the anger abruptly subside, leaving Dean exhausted, shivering and too drained to move.

The hand on his shoulder slides to curl gently around the back of Dean's neck, pulling his head down and angling him until Sam can kiss him, slow and steady and yeah, it might be wrong, but he doesn't care.

There's no lust in the kiss, just comfort and safety and affection and Dean's too tired to fight any more. He lets Sam pull back, and rest their foreheads against each other. He's can't fight anymore, and he lets Sam cradle him in his lap, fingers stroking over the back of Dean's neck, soft and gentle, until Dean thinks he could almost fall asleep like this, almost believe the illusion of safety and love within Sam's arms.

*****

Dean finally relaxes, breathing deepening until Sam's half convinced he's fallen asleep. Sam lets him rest there, enjoying the feel of Dean in his arms until the cramp in his legs from the awkward position forces him to nudge his brother.

"What?"

"Get up, my legs are killing me."

"Shouldn't have such freakishly long legs then." It's a familiar insult, and the sleepy indignation in Dean's voice just makes Sam smile. He thinks that if they can still be so comfortable with each other, after everything they've been through, maybe things will be ok in the end..

"If you weren't so damned heavy, it wouldn't be such a problem."

"Are you calling me fat?"

Sam swallows a laugh and squeezes the back of Dean's neck lightly, then shoves him so he ends up sprawled across the back seat. Dean's face is the perfect picture of outrage and wounded pride. But it's the expanse of bare skin, and the way Dean's arms and legs are spread over the leather that draws Sam's attention. He's always known Dean was good looking, but _damn_ , he'd never really appreciated his brother's physical appeal before tonight. The rush of lust, and the sense memory of Dean beneath him, hips rolling into Sam's thrusts catches him by surprise. Whatever he might have expected to feel after taking his brother over the back seat of the car, it wasn't this.

Dean opens his mouth, as if to speak, but then his eyes narrow, and he quirks an eyebrow, all cocky arrogance. If it wasn't for the fact that Sam's frozen in place, he'd be tempted to punch his brother. As it is, he just really, really wants to kiss him. Dean's expression shifts, and for just a second he looks scared, then his whole face softens, and he reaches out, grabbing Sam's shoulder and pulling Sam towards him. Sam watches as something hot flares in Dean's eyes, then they're kissing and he's positive he's never, ever going to get bored of kissing his brother.

He only pulls back when his leg damn near goes into spasm, he's been sitting on it so long. Dean's eyes are dark, pupils wide, and there's just the faintest flush across his cheekbones. Sam feels as though he's seeing his brother through entirely new eyes, and he likes the new perspective, although he's absolutely not going to tell Dean that, ever. Bastard has a big enough ego as it is.

Dean's watching him, his slightly curious expression belied by hot eyes, and Sam wonders how this can feel so easy, so simple. How he can want to run his hands over Dean's skin again, and never stop, make his brother make those soft, helpless noises again, have Dean fuck him. He realizes everything he's just thought must have shown on his face when Dean's eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath.

The briefest look of surprise, and something very like wonder slides across Dean's face, before being replaced by a toned down version of the smirk that Sam's so familiar with. He shakes his head, and grins back. As much as Sam would like to carry on, his leg really is hurting now. He clambers out of the car, and they spend several minutes finding their clothes, untangling various items and using the wet wipes Dean always carries to remove all trace of oil and semen. Sam’s almost tempted to comment on the fact that it makes a change for them not to be cleaning up blood after a hunt, but he doesn’t want to spoil the mood by reminding Dean that he could have died tonight. Some of the earlier tension has bled from his brother, although Sam can tell he's still wary. It doesn't matter, Sam's determined that he's not going to give up; he's going to prove himself to Dean; he's going to get it right this time.

****

The drive back to the hotel is silent. Dean feels calmer, though the memory of thinking Sam was gone is still tormenting him, in the back of his mind. He ignores it, and concentrates instead on the fact that Sam's alive, and here, with him.

Sam's driving and Dean's staring out of the window into the darkness. He can feel Sam glancing over at him from time to time, but he doesn't respond. He's still trying to get his head around the fact that Sam isn't freaking out, let alone the way Sam is trying so hard to convince Dean that he's going to stay.

Dean wants to believe, god, he wants it so much, and Sam sounds so honest, so earnest. The way Sam touched him, kissed him, like Dean was precious, was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. And damn if Dean doesn't want to feel that again, doesn't want to be the center of Sam's world for once. He wants it enough that he's almost ready to risk believing Sam's actually going to stay this time. Sam's been trying so hard to convince him that he means what he says about not going, and Dean's always had a hard time holding out against Sam when he gets that earnest look on his face.

He's torn between protecting what's left of his heart, his dignity, and giving in, letting himself lean on Sam, trust Sam not to tear his world apart again. It's so close to everything he's ever really wanted, and then some, offered on a silver platter, and though Dean's sure there'll be a high price to pay for this later, it's more temptation than he can resist.

Dean can damn near hear Sam's brain working overtime, and he knows there's a question coming when Sam takes a breath. He tries not to tense, but he's certain he knows exactly what the next words out of Sam's mouth are going to be.

"So, what happens now?"

Well, he was actually expecting 'We need to talk', but that's pretty close. Dean closes his eyes and tries not to sigh, not to start an argument.

"Sam..."

"Dean, we need to..."

"I swear to God, Sammy, if the next word out of your mouth is 'talk' I will shoot you full of rock salt and leave your corpse by the side of the road."

He can almost hear the click as Sam snaps his mouth shut in surprise. Score one for the older brother. But he knows that just this once, Sam's got a point. Like it or not, he's actually going to have to talk to Sam about this, because otherwise, it's either going to drive a wedge between them or come back and bite them on the ass at the worst possible moment. Or, quite possibly both.

He turns to face Sam; if he has to have this conversation, he'd rather it was here, now, where Sam's going to have to concentrate on the road as well as talking. Dean has a feeling he's going to need any advantage he can get.

"Fine. You're not going to leave this alone, are you? You're like a dog with a damned bone sometimes Sam. You want to talk? Ok, talk."

The insulted, then stunned look that Sam turns to him has Dean fighting a smirk. As much fun as it'd be to get under Sammy's skin right now, it's not going to help, and Dean honestly doesn't want another argument tonight.

"I..." Oh, but the sight of Sam lost for words is priceless.

Sam shuts his mouth again, and licks his lips, obviously unbalanced. Dean's distracted by that simple, innocent action, and all he can think about is how it felt to kiss Sam and have his brother's mouth on his skin; how Sam's lips would look, stretched around his cock. Dean's tempted to tell Sam to just pull over, but he reigns in the desire and tries to concentrate. Talk first, jump Sam later.

"Ok, look, what are we going to do about... ah..."

Dean rolls his eyes. This whole conversation is surreal, and Sam's sudden attack of shyness, while amusing as hell, really isn't helping. Dean wants a cold beer, a long, hot shower, and, just in case any gods are listening, an easier life where his family is concerned.

He raises an eyebrow and lets just a hint of a smirk out, though in truth, he's starting to worry that maybe Sam's about to start flipping out on him, finally, and yeah, maybe having this conversation in the car wasn't one of his smarter ideas.

Sam scowls, trying to divide his attention between the road and Dean. Dean has no intention of helping him out here. Just because he knows they've got to have this conversation, doesn't mean he's got to let Sam have it all is own way.

"We're good with this? I mean, no regrets, right?"

Dean sighs, there's that earnest look and tone again.

"No Sam, no regrets. Scout's honor."

Sam slants a look at him, half exasperated, half amused.

"Dean, ah... you think we might...ah..." Dean would laugh at Sam's sudden shyness, if it weren't for the fact that it is suddenly, unaccountably, hot.

"Do it again?"

The flush that colors Sam's cheeks is unexpected, and pretty damned interesting. Possibly even just pretty.

"Yeah. So, you would, you know..."

He can't keep the laugh in this time. Christ, he's probably laying himself open to having his heart ripped in two again, and he's damn sure going to hell, but if he can have this, just for a while, it might just be worth it.

"You want to fuck me again Sam?" He watches, fascinated and ridiculously aroused when Sam's flush deepens, staining his cheeks bright pink, and yeah, he might be a fool, but if he's going to pay for this later, he might as well enjoy it now.

"Dean..." Sam's slightly breathless, and just _damn_. If there's a special hell for people who fuck their brother, Dean's going to make damn sure that he earns his place there.

Sam swallows and Dean's eyes follow the motion, and he's suddenly tempted by the idea of leaning over and licking a long stripe up Sam's neck.

"We're here." Dean looks away from Sam and realizes that they are indeed back at the motel.

There's a subdued, slightly awkward few minutes as they leave the car and head for the room. Dean wonders if Sam's come to the same realisation he has; it's one thing to get hot and heavy with your brother in the heat of the moment, but it's something quite different when you've had time to think about it. Dean knows this might be where it all falls apart.

*****

Sam's all too aware of Dean following him back to their room. He can feel the nervous tension humming between them, but even that isn't enough to drown out the insistent buzz of arousal; desire; _want_.

He knows he shouldn't want this so much, want Dean's hands and mouth on him. He could blame the first time on fear, his and Dean's, on the need for comfort, and reassurance. But whatever happens in their room tonight, and he's honest enough to admit that _something_ is going to happen, he can't blame on anything but his own needs.

Sam's not the prude that Dean seems to think he is. He's not a complete novice when it comes to guys, though a few drunken fumblings, a couple of sloppy blowjobs and some late night internet surfing barely count as experience. He's trying very hard not to think about the fact that Dean apparently knew what he was doing, because that leaves Sam not sure if he wants to kill someone, or throw Dean up against the wall and fuck him all over again.

So he's no innocent, but Jesus Christ, he's just had _sex_ with Dean, with his own _brother_. That thought is part fear, part stunned disbelief, and part lust. It might be wrong, and obscene and illegal, and dear God if Dad ever finds out they're both dead, but he has to admit that he wants to do it again.

He has no idea how they're going to cope with this. How do you deal with the knowledge that you know just what your brother looks like when he comes, how he sounds when you wrap your hand around his cock, the way he feels when you drive into him and fuck him. When the memory of the single time you've done all that makes you shiver and gets you so achingly hard you can barely remember why you're not supposed to be doing this in the first place.

In some ways though, the biggest shock is discovering that he's just as fucked up as the rest of his family.

Sam unlocks the door of their motel room, acutely aware of Dean standing behind, not touching him, but close enough that the hair on the back of Sam's neck stands up. The air feels charged, like right before a storm, and he can only hope that's not a premonition of any kind, because they've been through enough already tonight.

He doesn't look round when the door opens, just walks straight in. He's halfway across the room when he hears the door close, softly. There's something about that soft snick that gets to him in a way that Dean shutting the door normally wouldn't have. It's stupid, but it's as if there's a whole sub-text of intent and meaning in that deliberate action.

When he turns, Dean's leaning against the door, face carefully blank, arms crossed across his chest. Sam tries very hard not to notice the way the pose makes the T-shirt Dean's wearing stretch across his chest, nor the way his hips jut forward, and especially not the way his lips always look as if Dean's pouting. Fuck, how is he supposed to ever look at Dean in the same way again. Could this be any more screwed up?

"Dean, what we did..."

"Oh god, not again." Dean's tone is bored, but Sam can see the fear in his eyes, before it's hidden behind the mask again.

"We're _brothers_ , Dean."

"I _know_." Dean shifts, almost nervously, and it's a shock to realize that maybe his brother is as unsure about this as Sam is. Dean's never cared for what other people think, always lived by his own set of morals, but perhaps this is something even he can't justify. Sam isn't sure whether that idea leaves him relieved or worried.

"Other people..."

"Other people? We're not _other people_ Sammy, we never have been. Their rules don't apply to us."

"Christ, you sound just like Dad."

"Don't bring him into this."

"Yeah, because he's going to be thrilled to find out."

"Sam....." 'Dean's eyes are narrowed, that bland indifference is slipping and Sam feels as though he's caught in some weird alternate universe, because his mouth is saying one thing while the rest of his body just wants to learn and relearn how Dean's skin feels against his.

"I know you don't care about the legality, but damnit, Dean, what about the morality?"

"What happened to 'no regrets'? What happened to 'you wanna do it again'? Because, I don't know about you Sammy, but I do. I want to do it again."

Sam sucks in a breath, forgetting whatever he was going to say next, because Dean's words make goose-bumps break out over his skin, and the _look_ on Dean's face, dear god. Now that Sam knows what it feels like to touch Dean like that, to hold him and treat him like a lover, he can't go back. And he honestly can't say he regrets it. God, he should, and some small part of him _wants_ to, the same part that wants his life to be normal. But even that isn't enough to make him deny that he wants this, right or wrong.

"I _don't_ regret it. I should, but I don't. I do want to do it again. But fuck, Dean, how are we going to... I mean, what if people notice..."

Dean grins, suddenly and brilliantly, and Sam's not sure whether to be worried, pissed, or aroused.

"Man, half the people we meet already think we're fucking lovers instead of brothers."

"That's not the.... What?"

Dean laughs, and it's definitely arousal that Sam's feeling, because _fuck_ , Dean looks so completely different when he laughs. It's the faint laughter lines round his eyes, the way his eyes seem to sparkle, the way those damn full lips stretch around the grin, and it's all sorts of wrong that Sam's suddenly hit with the mental image of Dean on his knees, that mouth around Sam's cock.

There's just no way they're going to be able to hide this. Sam can barely look at Dean without thinking about fucking him and what if that never changes? What the hell is going to happen when Dad turns up again, as he's bound to do? How the hell does he keep his hands, let alone his eyes, off his brother? He's going to hell for this but he can't muster up the strength to care right now.

****

Dean watches Sam, can see the internal struggle between what Sam thinks he should want, and what his body wants. When Sam's eyes rake him, from head to toe, Dean pushes away from the door, uncrossing his arms, knowing that Sam's going to see that Dean's half hard, has been since he closed the door. This is the point where they either move, or fall apart, and he doesn't know which scares him more.

Sam stares at Dean's groin, and the look on his face; wanting, hungry, torn just makes Dean swallow, makes his cock harden a little more. Sam's eyes widen, and his gaze jumps up to Dean's face, meeting his eyes briefly, before dropping to watch Dean's mouth, and when Sam licks his lips, Dean _knows_ just what his brother's thinking. He's been told often enough that he has pretty lips, cock-sucking lips. The idea of doing that to Sam has him completely hard, and ready to show him just what he can do. Sam might still have reservations about this, but his body knows what it wants and Dean thinks if he can just keep him from thinking too much, they'll get past this moral thing. It won't stop Sam tearing Dean apart again if he leaves, but it might just make him think twice before doing it. Dean's not above fighting dirty to keep his brother with him, even if it leaves him even more open to being abandoned again.

He can see Sam's breathing speed up, see that his brother is half hard again too, despite his protestations of how wrong this is. Dean wonders if Sam's right, if he _should_ feel bad that he wants this, but he meant what he said; they're not like other people, and Dean's never felt that society’s rules have applied to him. Like he said, it's a dangerous gig, and he can't see the point in denying himself fun and pleasure, especially when he knows it could all be over in a heartbeat. He's even more aware of the risky nature of their lives after the horror of thinking he'd lost Sam tonight.

So he might be laying himself open to Sam stamping all over his emotions again, but he'll take that chance this time.

He walks towards Sam, watching his brother almost square his shoulders, as if Dean's about to throw a punch. Dean has no intention of beating on him, but he suspects what he is planning is going to hit Sam just as hard. He sees the moment Sam gives in and accepts that he wants this, that he's not going to say no. One of his hands reaches out towards Dean, and he starts to dip his head, as if expecting a kiss.

Oh, Dean'll kiss him alright, he just intends to do it a little lower down.

Sam's quiet gasp as Dean drops to his knees is absurdly gratifying. The full body shudder when Dean reaches for, and undoes his fly is stupidly arousing, and the gentle hands that cup the back of Dean's head and his shoulder make Dean want to do this even more. There's a tenderness, and a reverence in Sam's touch that undoes Dean. He can't stop the fear that this is going to go horribly wrong, but he can ignore it for now.

Sam's hard, and he hisses when Dean pulls his jeans and boxers down and wraps a hand around Sam's cock. When Dean licks the head, slowly, letting his tongue drag over the soft, sensitive skin, Sam starts panting. He starts cursing when Dean opens his mouth and slides down over Sam's cock, tongue flicking against the underside as he does. There’s the faintest trace of gun oil, and the lingering antiseptic tang of the wet wipes, but he ignores them both, concentrating on drawing as much of a reaction from Sam as he can.

"Oh. Oh fuck, Dean.... Damn. We shouldn't... Oh _fuck_..."

Sam's hips arch as Dean slides a hand between his legs, cupping and rolling his balls. He lets his fingers slide further back, touch firm enough not to tickle, but nowhere near as firm as he wants. The way Sam trembles, legs trying to spread as far as they can, despite the jeans hampering his movements is beyond hot, and Dean slides his hand further back, fingertips pressing more firmly, teasing, promising.

"Christ. Yes, Dean, God."

Just the thought of what Sam is offering is enough to make Dean tremble himself. It's the dirtiest kind of hot, and Dean knows he shouldn't want it, but _fuck_ , the idea of fucking Sammy is scrambling his brain and making his hands shake.

He thought he was ok with this, but _Jesus_ , as much as the idea turns him on, it scares the shit out of him. It's one thing for Sam to take him, but to do that to Sam, he doesn't know if he can. He pulls back, and looks up at Sam.

Oh, _fuck_. Sam's eyes are nothing but pupil, his cheeks are pink, and he's gasping for breath. He looks well fucked already, and Dean's mind is helpfully supplying him with vivid images of how Sam'll look when he's _really_ been fucked hard. Dean's certain he should be playing the responsible older brother here, but he's nowhere near noble enough for that. Not when Sam looks so damned edible.

"Dean, please... I want..."

Sam's voice is rough, desperation and lust deepening it even more than normal. How is Dean supposed to resist this? Sam's offering him every dark fantasy he's ever had. Oh yeah, he's going to hell, no hand basket required.

"What Sammy, what do you want?" _Tell me Sam, I need to hear you say it. I need to know you want this_.

"Fuck me. I want you to fuck me, damnit."

Dean's fairly sure he shouldn't be as turned on by hearing Sam say that as he is. Damn, this is still wrong, but he's always given Sam what he needs, and if he tries, he can convince himself that this is no different.

"Whatever you want Sammy. Always what you want."

Sam closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Dean's certain this is where his brother will come to his senses and push Dean away again.

"No. What _we_ want Dean. You need to want this too, damnit."

Dean must have something in his eyes, that's the only reason he can think of for why they're suddenly suspiciously wet.

Sam's hand moves from Dean's shoulder and strokes across his cheekbone.

"Dean, I want this, God help me, but only if you want it too. I don't want you doing this because it's what you think I need. I won't use you that way."

Dean has to close his eyes, but he leans into Sam's touch; turns his head and kisses Sam's palm.

"Oh, Dean..."

"For as long as you'll have me. I want you, damnit. Just don't..." He doesn't open his eyes, scared anew that he's exposing himself to being hurt.

"Forever, Dean. For as long as we live. I swear. No more running away, ok? No more hiding. This is for good. I promise."

Hands pull Dean up off his knees, but he's still too scared to open his eyes. Sam's hand tugs him closer, and then they're kissing. Slow, deliberate, and no-one else has ever kissed Dean like this. He's certain Sam has no idea what he's saying, but he can't fight it anymore. He needs Sam, and to have this is worth all the heartache in the world.

Sam's hand tugging at his fly startles Dean, but when Sam gets the denim open, and slides a hand around Dean's cock, he can do nothing but whimper into their kiss. He returns the favor, and for long minutes they stand, trading kisses and long, slow strokes. It's hot, and intense, and intimate and Dean couldn't stop if he wanted to.

Sam comes first, pulling his mouth away and dropping his head to Dean's shoulder, biting down hard enough that Dean can feel it through his jacket and shirt. Sam's hand tightens almost painfully on Dean's cock as he rides the spasms, then he resumes stroking, mouth moving over Dean's neck; licking and kissing and nibbling until Dean can't hold off any longer and comes, the idea of his semen spilling over Sam's hand making him twitch and curse and come just that little bit harder.

Seriously fucked up. And Dean doesn't want it any other way anymore.

*****

XXXX

Dean's half asleep in Sam's arms, physically and emotionally wrecked, even though he'd deny both to his last breath. Sam kicks himself for forgetting that it's only been a couple of days since Dean got out of hospital, even though so much has happened in that short period of time.

Sam ends up manhandling his brother over to the bed, stripping him down. Dean's asleep the moment his head hits the pillow, leaving Sam to clean them both up.

He takes the opportunity to study Dean as he does, seeing the toll the last few weeks have taken on his brother in the fine lines and the dark circles around his eyes, but even with those he looks a little less wary, a little less guarded, as if he trusts Sam to watch over him. It's not the first time Sam's watched Dean sleep, but he does so through new eyes now.

He doesn't regret what they've done, though he knows he should. He just can't bring himself to feel any kind of remorse for it. It's the first time since Jess died that he's honestly felt any kind of connection to another person. He never expected to ever feel this much for another person again; wasn't even sure he wanted to. He'd loved Jess so much and he was scared of letting anyone else in, of opening himself up to that kind of pain again.

Dean though, is different. He doesn't have to worry about opening up and letting Dean in, because he's always been there, a constant presence in Sam's life, even when they weren't talking. Despite Sam's anger over Dad's ultimatum, and Dean's attempt to take both sides, he'd never honestly meant to cut them out of his life, _especially_ not Dean. It was just that as time went by, his anger dimmed, but it became harder and harder to make the first move and call his brother. He's sorry for the stubbornness that drove such a wedge between them for so long.

There's some sort of perverse logic, of the kind that seems to follow the Winchesters, that if he was going to fall for anyone again, it would be the one person he's always relied on; his older brother.

Brother and now lover. He gets a strange thrill from that thought. He has no idea how many laws they've broken, just by crossing that line, though that worries him less than he would have thought. It's so wrong, what they've done, what Sam _knows_ they'll do again. They're going to have to hide it from everyone. It's dirty, in both the hot and the shameful sense.

Sam wonders if it'll hit him later, when he's actually had a chance to sit and process the enormity, and the ramifications of what's happened. If he'd done something differently, if he'd thought before kissing Dean, then they'd still just be brothers. But the sight of his brother, broken wide open and damn near destroyed with grief and guilt had shocked Sam to the core, and he'd acted without thinking. He'd needed to offer solace, comfort, and affirmation that they were both still alive.

Kissing Dean had felt no different to holding him and even though the memories of Dean giving himself to Sam like that, willing and pliant and _desperate_ were as sexy as hell, it was more than that. Dean's spent most of his life looking out for Sam, giving him what he wanted and needed, so rarely taking what he needed for himself that the shame and unease Sam feels pales in comparison to the desire to repay just a little of Dean's devotion, to give his brother whatever he needs to mend, to start to heal, though he's honest enough to admit that it was as much about his own need to reassure himself, to take the gift Dean so willingly offered him, as it was about Dean. And he feels more guilt about that than about the fact he's fucked his brother.

Sam's biggest fear, though, is Dad. He's not stupid enough to believe that Dad will stay away forever, and he just knows that their father will pick up on the change in his and Dean's relationship. And when he does, all hell's going to break loose, and Sam'd bet good money that it'll be Dean that'll bear the brunt of Dad's inevitable anger.

He never realized until they'd found Dad again, just how much harder on Dean Dad was. Sam wonders how much Dean had shielded him from Dad's disapproval, how much of the blame his big brother had taken when things went wrong. It's only recently that Sam's started seeing Dean through adult eyes, and discovered that his brother was so much more than the stereotype Sam had thought him.

Sam knows that there are only three things Dean considers truly important in life; Dad, hunting, and Sam himself, but he's discovering that behind the apparently shallow, cocky, devil may care attitude Dean presents to the world is an easily wounded man, with layers and secrets that Sam in his arrogance never suspected existed.

He feels guilty for it now, but he didn't want to be on the road, hunting, with Dean again and that resentment was like a wall between them that Sam was unwilling to breach, though god knows, Dean tried often enough.

Dean whimpers softly, twitching in his sleep, and Sam's across the room before he knows it, sitting on the bed, one hand resting on Dean's shoulder, while the other strokes his brother's head in a way Dean would never allow if he were awake. The sudden tension at Sam's touch is hardly surprising, but it hurts, none the less.

"Shsssh, Dean. I'm here."

Dean whimpers once more, then seems to relax again.

Sam considers heading for the other bed, and trying to grab a few hours sleep, but he looks at Dean; at his hand, still stroking Dean's hair and discards that idea. He strips down to his boxers and slides into the bed, curling loosely around Dean's body, chest to back, and rests a hand on Dean's hip. It's hardly the first time they've shared a bed, but it's loaded with new meaning now. This is the first time they've shared a bed as lovers, even if Dean is dead to the world. It's surreal, but comfortable, and Sam lets Dean's steady breaths lull him to sleep.

When he wakes, hours later, Dean's still sleeping, although he's turned during the night and is now curled into Sam, one arm and a leg thrown over him. It reminds Sam of sharing a bed when they were kids, but the memory is overlaid now with the newly awakened arousal, and the memory of Dean's skin under his hands.

The temptation to touch Dean, to arouse him and drag him from sleep with kisses and caresses is strong, but Sam's not sure how Dean'll react and he's not comfortable enough with their transition to lovers yet to risk trying. Instead he gently disentangles himself, surprised that Dean doesn't wake, but amused by the sleepy snuffle that's his brother's only reaction.

He stands under the shower, letting the hot water spill over him, welcoming another day and feeling hopeful and just plain _happy_ for the first time in God knows how long. He knows things aren't going to be simple, or easy, but he's used to that and if Dean feels like this too, then it's worth it, whatever else they have to deal with.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean wakes to the feel of morning sun on his skin. He's sated and lazy; relaxed in a way he hasn't felt for a long time. He stretches, enjoying the way his spine pops back into place, then sits on the edge of the bed.

He'd half expected to wake up and find Sammy gone, no matter what his little brother might have said in the heat of passion, but Sam's clothes are still strewn around the room, and he can hear the shower running. Dean knows it's stupid beyond belief, but he's starting to believe that just maybe, Sam actually means what he says. Every time Dean's been certain his baby brother will up and leave, he's turned out to be wrong, and not only has Sam stayed, but he's gone out of his way to try and convince Dean that he's not leaving. There's an earnestness, an honesty in Sam's declarations that Dean hasn't heard for _years_ , and Sam's only ever used that tone when he's desperate to prove he's telling the truth.

Dean remembers the feel of Sam's hand, warm and gentle against his cheek; the horror and the delight of hearing Sam promise him forever. Dean's all too well aware that forever probably isn't going to be as long for them as it would be for other people, but he's cool with that, really. And if he gets to spend that time with Sam in his life, in his bed, he's greedy enough to grab it with both hands.

It surprises Dean, a little, how Sam seems to be dealing with what's happened and how little regret he's shown. If Dean had ever given this situation any thought before it happened, he'd have figured Sam would be in the midst of a major fit of angsting by now. The moments of worry have been few and far between, and by Sam standards, barely worth mentioning. Of course, that could all change, but the fact that Sam's still here gives Dean some hope that things might work out after all.

He's contemplating whether sneaking into the bathroom and joining Sam in the shower would result in a freaked out Sam trying to kill him, when his cell rings. Dean scrambles for the phone, not needing to look at the caller display to know who's calling. It can only be one person, and his lecherous thoughts about his brother evaporate. He takes a deep breath, and then flips the phone open.

"Dad..."

"Dean. You ok son?"

Ridiculous how such a simple question can fill him with such contrasting emotions. Overwhelming happiness that maybe Dad actually cares, shame over what he's done with Sam, and a tangled mix of sadness and relief and anger that he's not here with them.

"Yeah. Just about." He can't hide the bitterness, can only hope that it masks the fear and the remembered horror of thinking he'd caused Sam's death.

"Dean. What is it? What's happened?" Dad sounds, not panicked, exactly, but worried, his voice taut with tension and worry. Dean tries not to feel a perverse sense of satisfaction at the sound. God knows, he loves Dad, but sometimes even he can't help but feel a little resentful of the fact that no matter what he does, it's never been quite good enough for the great John Winchester. Usually, he buries that part of him, as deep as he can, but his emotions have been scraped so raw of late that he can't ignore it the way he used to.

Either that or Sam's starting to rub off on him, and damnit, but that's not a thought he needs hen he's on the phone to Dad.

"We're fine, Dad." It's not an answer, not really, and definitely not to the question Dad asked, and Dean knows that he's not going to get away with the evasion, but he needs time to think, time to figure out how to deal with this.

"Damnit, tell me what happened, you hear me?" There's a familiar note in Dad's voice, one that Dean's heard damn near every day since he was four. A tone that says 'how the hell did you screw up _this_ time?'.

"Yes _sir_ , I hear you." He takes a breath, resentful, resigned, and just so damned tired. "It didn't go quite as smooth as it should, and..." he has to stop, caught again by the gut-wrenching grief at losing Sam "..but we're fine."

"What do you mean, 'didn't go as smooth as it should'? Dean..."

"Don't." He's not sure which of them is more surprised by the sharpness of his tone. "We weren't ready...to go hunting again. We... _I_ wasn't ready. Damnit Dad, Sam nearly..." he nearly chokes on a sob, but swallows it down "I screwed up, because I wasn't ready, because I couldn't...God, Dad..." He can hear the fear in his own voice, even though he's whispering by the end.

"But Sam's ok? You're both ok?" Dean wants to laugh. Ok? Not even for Winchesters could nearly getting your brother killed, and then fucking him be considered _ok_.

"We're in one piece, and we're alive. Does that fall into your definition of ok, Dad?"

"Dean, stop. I...thought it would help you. I...I guess I should have listened to Sam."

Dean shudders, hot and cold by turns.

"Sam? You've talked to Sam?" Betrayal, hot and strong leaves the taste of bile and ashes in his mouth.

"Yeah. Before I sent those co-ordinates. He told me then that you weren't ready." Dean can hear Dad take a breath, but he can't seem to quite get past the fact that Sam's _still_ hiding things from him; still keeping Dean at arms length. Sam spoke to Dad and never said anything; Sam tried to protect him; Sam knew better than Dean or Dad. He doesn't exactly like his brother's new protective streak, but he can't deny that it warms him more than it should.

"Dean. I'm...sorry. Sam begged me not to send you on a hunt, maybe I should have listened to him."

It's like someone's tipped a bowl of ice water down Dean's back, and the first thing he thinks is that the Demon's got to Dad again, because he's _never_ heard Dad admit to a mistake, let alone apologize.

"Dad....?"

"I just, I want you boys to be safe. That's all I've ever wanted." _Not all_ , Dean thinks, but he keeps the thought to himself. He's pretty certain it's guilt talking now, and that sooner rather than later, Dad's going to be sending more co-ordinates, and eventually he's going to go after the demon again

"I know Dad."

There's a pause, and Dean can hear Dad's breathing, and he wonders briefly whether his life could possible get any more surreal.

"Is Sam there?"

"He's in the shower. You want me to get him?"

"No. I'll call him later. Dean, you take care of him...and yourself, you hear. You boys...you're...just watch yourselves, ok?"

Dean hears the bathroom door opening, and he turns to watch Sam, towel slung low on his hips. The sight is distracting, but with Dad on the phone, and the knowledge of Sam's deceit, however well intentioned, it's relatively easy to keep his libido under control.

"Yeah. Yes sir. Bye Dad."

****

Sam wraps a towel around his waist, and feels an unfamiliar tingle of something remarkably like anticipation over his skin. He's lost count of the number of times he's faced Dean wearing nothing more than this, and sometimes less, and thought nothing of it. That's all changed now, and though Sam still finds it strange to think of Dean in that way, he can't deny the sexual thrill the thought brings.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, finding it hard to reconcile the fact that despite everything that's happened, he doesn't look any different. He looks relaxed, calm, more at ease, but essentially the same. He doesn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed that the happiness he feels bubbling just underneath his skin doesn't show. He knows they're going to have to be careful, but he also wants the world to know, to _see_ how happy they are. It's exactly the same way he felt with Jess, the day he decided he was going to ask her to marry him. It surprises him that he doesn't feel guilt for comparing them, Dean and Jess, but though he loves them both, it's in completely different ways. Jess was his normal, his white picket fence and 2.5 kids; she understood Sam, even if she didn't really know him. Dean is his rock, his support, the constant in a life of change and uncertainty, and the only person who has ever really known Sam, even if he hasn't always understood him.

He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean sitting on the bed, phone held to his ear. The look on Dean's face tells Sam who his brother is talking to. The happiness drains from Sam when he sees the look in Dean's eyes as he watches Sam.

"Yeah. Yes sir. Bye Dad."

Dean lowers and the phone, and snaps it shut, without taking his eyes off Sam. Sam can sense the cold anger, and he _knows_ Dad's told Dean about the first phone call.

"Dean, I..."

"Were you going to tell me that Dad called?"

Dean's voice is cold, and Sam has a sudden flash of premonition, of the ways this conversation could go, and it's shocking to realize that this moment could be the beginning of something special, something _important_ in a way Sam can't quite grasp, or the end of everything Sam holds dear. And everything rests on how Sam answers.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I was worried. I didn't think we were ready to start hunting again so soon, and I asked Dad to understand but he... I'm sorry Dean, I still should have said something."

Dean's expression doesn't change for what feels like eternity, and Sam wonders if he got it wrong after all. The fear of being the reason everything falls apart wracks his body with cold shivers.

"Dad said you were pretty mad at him. That you told him not to send us on a hunt."

Sam still can't read Dean's mood, all he can do is wrap his arms around himself, and hold his breath. Dean looks away, and throws the phone onto the bedside table, as if in disgust.

"I told him you were right. That _I_ hadn't been ready, and that I'd nearly got you killed."

That Dean would admit he wasn't a superman, to Sam; that he'd admit to Dad that he'd screwed up gives Sam hope that he made the right choice after all, and shocks him speechless.

Dean lifts his head and meets Sam's eyes.

"I'm mad you didn't tell me he'd called but... I guess I know why you did it. But you can't make those kinds of decisions for me, Sam. I don't need you to protect me. I'm too damn tired to fight about this shit all the time."

Sam can't help thinking that Dean needs exactly that, because he spends so much time protecting Sam that he forgets about himself. He bites his tongue, because as open and honest as Dean is right now, Sam's pretty sure Dean's not going to want to hear that.

"Yeah, I know. I am sorry, man. No more secrets?"

Dean looks for a moment as though he's going to say something else, then he snaps his mouth closed, and nods. The relief sweeps through Sam, and he's glad that he's got his arms crossed, because he's certain his hands would be trembling otherwise.

"So, you leave me some hot water? I know there's a lot of you to wash and all, but dude, what the hell do you do in there?" Dean raises an eyebrow and leers at Sam.

Sam isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the knowledge that he got it right. He wants to slap Dean for being the same smart-ass brother he's always been. He wants to press his brother down onto the bed and kiss and touch him until Dean can't think of anything but Sam. He wants to fuck that ridiculous smirk off of Dean's face.

He's across the room and in Dean's lap before he knows it, hands cupping Dean's head, fingers cradling his brother's skull, marveling at the way Dean lets him angle his head so that Sam can lick those far too tempting lips, and draw Dean into a deep, hot, wet kiss.

He pulls back, taking in the faint flush over Dean's cheeks that highlights the freckles, and the way his lips look slick and plump and completely fucking illegal, immoral and utterly _sinful_. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam can barely see any color at all, and he knows exactly what he wants.

"Dean. Fuck me."

"Christ Sammy." The sound of Dean's voice, breathy and deep makes Sam shiver. The way Dean's hips jerk, pressing his cock against Sam's ass through the towel and Dean's boxers makes Sam groan.

"Come on, do it. I want this Dean. Fuck me, damnit."

Dean actually growls, honest to god, and Sam didn't think that shit happened outside of dodgy novels and bad porn.

"Fine. You want to get fucked? I'll fuck you, little brother, I promise."

Dear God, hearing Dean talk like that, hearing that reminder of how many lines they're crossing shouldn't be so damned hot, but it makes Sam pant and has him grabbing Dean and slamming their mouths together. Dean gives as good as he gets, tongue chasing Sam's, teeth nipping at Sam's lips.

Dean shifts under Sam, and then he's standing, somehow hooking his arms under Sam's legs. He takes two steps, then dumps Sam on the other bed, following him down until he's leaning over Sam, arms braced on either side of his body. His expression is suddenly serious, and Sam knows that while Dean may not worry about morals, he does worry about hurting Sam. It's written all over his face. No matter that Sam's hardly a kid anymore, Dean still wants to be his big brother. Sam knows that if he ever indicated that he didn't want this, Dean would never touch him again, even if it killed him. Sam doesn't know what the hell he ever did to deserve that kind of devotion, but he does know now is not the time for Dean to start with this crap.

"Sam....."

"I know. It's fine, Dean." He reaches up and pulls Dean down into a kiss, then slides his hands under the waistband of Dean's boxers and pushes the thin cotton down, until they end up around Dean's ankles. When Dean tugs at the towel, Sam braces his feet and lifts his hips so Dean can pull it away and drop it onto the floor.

Skin against skin, and Sam wraps a leg around Dean's hips as his brother rocks into him. Dean stretches a hand out, and fumbles with something off to the side. Sam doesn't really pay much attention, until Dean lifts off a little, and a hand slides between them, and wraps around Sam's cock, slick and tight and hot. The firm stroke has Sam throwing his head back, hips arching up to follow the motion of Dean's hand. Shockingly hot, and damn, Sam can't believe he'd forgotten how good Dean is at this.

He's so caught in the pleasure of Dean’s hand fisting his cock that the slow slide of the finger inside him almost doesn't register. Lips and teeth drag over his throat, pain edged pleasure distracting him when another finger joins the first. The third finger burns enough that even the words Dean's whispering in his ear can't quite drown it out, but he doesn't care.

He doesn't resist when Dean moves him into position, doesn't care about the undignified and vulnerable position. He holds his breath, trying not to show how much it burns as Dean slides slowly into him, concentrating on the lewd words and soft endearments Dean’s mouthing into his neck, breath hot on his skin instead.

Dean’s movements are slow and careful, and the pain shifts, fades, and melts into pleasure. Dean keeps the same pace, pulling back, then driving in, deep, so deep. Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s hips, one hand clutching his brother’s bicep, the other around the back of Dean’s neck.

He doesn’t even realize he’s talking out loud until he hears Dean answer, and then Dean shifts, gets a better angle and suddenly he’s fucking Sam in earnest, hips driving hard, with almost bruising force and Jesus _fuck_ , it hurts, just a little but oh God, it’s good. Sam wriggles his hand between them and strokes his cock, knowing it’s not going to take much, but needing to come.

When Dean raises his head, looks Sam in the eyes, drives in hard once more and freezes, it’s the look in his eyes, that makes Sam shudder, makes him fuck his hand frantically until he’s coming, body clenching around Dean’s cock, leaving them both gasping and riding the aftershocks.

Dean pulls out gently, and Sam bites his lip to hide the wince. Dean half rolls, half falls to the side, and Sam rolls carefully over to face him. He forgets the discomfort when Dean drapes an arm over his waist, and pulls him in for a slow, gentle kiss.

Sam still doesn’t understand how it can feel so right, but he doesn’t care. He can’t have normal, anymore, but he can have this, and he’s fine with that, he really is.

Eventually Dean pulls away, and drops onto his back, though he leaves one hand resting on Sam’s hip.

"So, what did Dad say?"

"Jesus Sammy, you sure know how to kill the afterglow."

Sam laughs, wondering how the hell he got to a place where not even the mention of their father can dispel the pleasure of lying in Dean's arms and enjoying the faint ache that reminds him that he's just let his brother fuck him six ways to Sunday.

*****

Sam's too sated and lazy to call Dean on his evasion right now, unwilling to risk spoiling the mood by pushing Dean too hard. He needs to know that Dad didn't give Dean a hard time for what happened. He feels this ridiculous urge to protect his brother, even from their own father; _especially_ from their own father, though he knows it's both pointless, and will be unwelcome. Dean has a blind spot the size of a small continent where Dad's concerned, although given what he told Dad, Sam has some hope that that might change now.

They lie quietly for a long time. Sam listens to Dean's soft breathing and the muted sounds from outside, drifting into the room, as if from a long way away. It feels as though they're isolated, insulated from the rest of the world. Alone together in this room, they can be themselves, they don't have to pretend. Outside is full of people that Sam's knows will want to label them, condemn them for what they've done. People who won't, or can't look beyond the fact of their blood relationship or their gender to see the truth; that this physical relationship is nothing more than an extension of the bond that's always existed between them, even when Sam tried to deny it, tried to pretend he couldn't feel the pull towards Dean.

It makes Sam want to never leave this room, to stay here, safe and shielded from the rest of humanity. He knows it's childish and foolish, but lying next to Dean, watching the morning sun paint his brother's body with light and shadows, he can't help but indulge the fantasy. Dean's hand still rests on Sam's side, thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin over Sam's hip bone, slowly, rhythmically, and Sam's certain Dean isn't even aware he's doing it. The touch is both comforting and sensual, and Sam just lets himself enjoy the affection in his brother's touch, the closeness, and the hope that maybe this time they won't screw this up; that things might actually work out between them.

Sam doesn't expect it to be easy. Apart from the outside world, Dean is almost pathologically allergic to discussing anything emotional. Sam used to think that Dean didn't care, didn't really feel anything. It was only as an adult he realized that the opposite is true. Dean feels things so deeply that the only way he can deal with them is to bury them, to put up walls and barriers and keep people out. It dismays Sam to know that the only way to get Dean to open up is to break him. Though Dean's been more open these last couple of days, Sam knows it's because his brother has been pushed so far his defenses have been cracked wide open, so that every raw, bleeding emotion is laid bare.

There are so many reasons they shouldn't be doing this, from the fact its illegal; it's _incest_ ; it has the potential to hurt them both, very badly; to what would happen if Dad ever found out. Sam doesn't care, though. He lost his brother once through his own stubbornness; he's not going to make the same mistake again. It hurts though, to know that Dean's suffered through both Sam and Dad's ruthless obsessions. He's never asked for anything, never done anything but be there, right behind them, putting their needs before his, every damned time. He wishes he'd seen this before, but Dean made it so hard; keeping everyone out, refusing to admit to how much they hurt him with their carelessness, their refusal to see anything beyond what they wanted. Sam sighs and shifts on the bed. Dean stops stroking for a second, and Sam can feel the sudden tension as if he's still worried, after everything, that Sam's just going to up and leave. When Sam relaxes, trying to use his body language to tell Dean all the things he knows Dean won't let him say, the tension drains out of his brother and his thumb resumes the gentle stroking.

Everything feels languid, slow and lazy, so unlike most of their lives. Sam's almost tempted to give into the lure of sleep, just so he can have the pleasure of waking up next to Dean, but he wants to enjoy this quietness, this brief lull. He knows that they need to get up soon, and finish the job they came here to do, but not yet. He watches Dean, his brother's sprawled on his back, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, almost asleep. Sam finds the knowledge that he can just reach out and touch Dean, run a hand over the warm, tanned skin of his chest or arms, cup his face and kiss him, stunning. He can't quite get his head around how everything so familiar seems new, somehow.

"Sam, stop staring at me. You're giving _me_ a headache with all that thinking."

That's just so typically _Dean_ that Sam has to smile. Sleeping with Dean doesn't make him any less of a smart-ass, but it does make that attitude a little easier to deal with.

"What makes you think I'm looking at you?"

"Dude, I can practically _feel_ it. Just stop, ok?"

Sam moves closer, until he can see his breath stirring Dean’s hair, despite the amount of gel he puts in it. The little shiver that Dean can't hide sends a matching shiver through Sam.

"I thought you liked having people look at you, Dean."

"Looking is one thing, staring is something else. And will you quit breathing on me." Dean moves away, but Sam catches hold of his bicep, and Dean stops moving, frozen in place. Sam bites back the retort he was going to make and loosens his grip on Dean's arm.

"It's just, well, it seems different...now. Like I'm seeing you differently somehow." He watches Dean's face, wishing Dean would open his eyes so he could get a handle on what Dean's really thinking. When Dean tenses under his hand, Sam realizes Dean's taken that statement completely the wrong way, again. "Different good, Dean. It's just, it takes a bit of getting used to, you know. It's like I've always looked at you as my brother and now I'm having to look at you as my..." He trails off, suddenly shy and unsure about saying what he's thinking.

"Lover?" Dean's voice is neutral, and his eyes are still closed. The tension in his form hasn't abated, but it hasn't increased either, which Sam takes as a good sign.

"Yeah. It's just, odd. Doesn't mean I don't like it though." And wouldn't you know it, Dean chooses the moment Sam's certain he's blushing to open his eyes and turn to face Sam.

They watch each other for a moment, then Dean reaches over and brushes strands of hair off of Sam's forehead. And Sam's floored, yet again by this gentle, tender side of Dean. It makes him sad that he could have gone the rest of his life without ever seeing his brother like this; open, trusting. He's always known Dean loved him, he just never understood how much.

It's moments like this, more than the sex, more than anything else, that quell the lingering doubts, the last vestiges of shame and unease Sam feels.

Dean leans forward, and his eyes close again and Sam is suddenly, irrationally fascinated by the sight of Dean's eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. He keeps his eyes open as Dean kisses him, slow and gentle. There's almost nothing sexual about the kiss, and Sam thinks that he was right, he really could spend _hours_ kissing Dean like this.

When Dean pulls back, Sam leans forward, trying to recapture Dean's mouth. He opens eyes he doesn't remember closing when Dean laughs, low, deep, sexy as hell and Sam can't remember why he isn't supposed to find that sound arousing.

"Later, Sammy. Much as I'd like to stay here all day, we've got things to do."

Sam sighs. Too much to hope that Dean would forget about the coach. But the promise of _later_ makes the prospect of hunting down the ghost more bearable.

He watches Dean walk across to the bathroom, completely unselfconscious about the fact he's nude. Sam can't help but watch, and can't help but feel a little like a voyeur while he's doing it. When Dean shuts the door, Sam flops down onto his back and stares at the ceiling, letting the calm wash over him, hoping it will be enough to see him through the storm he's sure is going to come, sooner or later.

 

****

When Dean gets out of the shower, Sam goes to clean up, again. They dress and load up the car in relative silence. Not tense and strained like it was after Sam had left Stanford, but comfortable, familiar in the way it was when they were kids. They’ve always worked well together, even when they were fighting, or didn’t understand each other. Dad used to go off at them sometimes, used to tell them that they spent too much time watching each others backs, and not enough watching their own. Sam used to find that ironic, in a bitter kind of a way, because he’d thought that was exactly what Dad had wanted. But then, logic has never really been Dad’s strong point.

When the car’s loaded, they get in. Sam doesn’t ask Dean if he wants to drive, and Dean doesn’t offer.

The drive to the bridge is made in silence too, but the closer they get, the more Sam can sense the tension and the unease in Dean. Sam can feel it too; this place is so charged with feeling, with emotion for them, that it’s almost tangible.

He wants to offer comfort, and reassurance, but there’s nothing he can say that isn’t going to sound trite and patronizing, at least to Dean. He settles instead for resting his hand on Dean’s knee, wincing slightly at the way Dean jumps at the touch. He’s about to draw his hand away when Dean relaxes, exhaling softly, letting some of the tension drain away. Sam leaves his hand there for the rest of the drive, not sure which of them needs the contact and the reassurance more.

When he parks, he deliberately doesn’t park in the same spot they did the night before, and _God_ , how can it be only a few hours ago that they were here? It feels like half a lifetime. He turns to face Dean, but whatever he was going to say just flies out of his head at the look on his brother’s face. Dean’s staring at the bridge, and his expression is a churning mix of guilt, despair and anguish. He looks torn open again, like he did last night, when he thought Sam was dead, and it was his fault.

Sam reaches over, catches Dean’s hand and squeezes.

“Dean, hey, Dean. It’s ok. I’m fine. We’re fine.” He keeps his voice soft, gentle, trying to keep his confused emotions from bleeding through.

Dean tears his eyes away from the bridge and looks at Sam and his eyes are so blank, that for a moment, Sam thinks Dean doesn’t even see him, then he blinks, and focuses.

“Sam….” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been shouting, or crying and it makes that need to protect him rise up in Sam again. He wonders if this is what Dean’s _always_ felt and it’s just another thing that Sam could kick himself for not getting. God knows, Dean has his faults and Sam could list every one, but Sam should never have taken his brother so much for granted. He’s just about to say so when Dean shakes his head slightly and blinks slowly again, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts.

When his eyes open, they’re bright with what Sam suspects are tears, but they focus, and in a second or two, it’s as if nothing had happened. It makes Sam’s head spin, how fast Dean can hide behind the walls Sam and John have helped him build.

“Come on, let’s get this done and get out of here.” And there’s nothing that Sam can say to that, not when Dean’s closed off like this. All he can do is follow, and hope just being here is support enough for Dean to get through this.

****

The bridge doesn’t look so imposing in daylight, but Dean still feels a chill run through him. He can still see the moment the coach plunged over the edge, every time he closes his eyes. He can feel the horror at losing Sam, at knowing he could have stopped it, and didn’t. He has to get out of the car, away from Sam’s scrutiny and concern; concern he doesn’t deserve.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and waits for Sam to get out and open the trunk. The calm laziness of the morning seems to have burnt away, and now Dean just wants to get this over with, and get the hell away from this place. He wants to put this place, this area, hell, this whole damned _state_ as far behind them as he can, then he wants to find a halfway decent motel and a liquor store, and then he wants to lock the door and lose himself in Sam, in the knowledge that his brother is alive and well, and _here_.

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching him, as if Sam’s afraid to let Dean out of his sight for even a second, and isn’t that ironic, when by rights it should be Dean checking on Sammy. It still sickens Dean that the one time Sam needed him, he fucked up, and damned near cost his brother his life. He can’t bring himself to look at Sam and see the worry in his brother’s eyes.

Sam thankfully doesn’t say anything, but his fingers trail over Dean’s when he hands him a gun, and Dean’s hand moves by itself, wrapping around the weapon and Sam’s fingers. Sam tangles their fingers and it feels somehow symbolic of their lives; of everything they are, standing in the pale sunlight, holding on to each other, the gun caught between their hands. It’s so close to everything Dean has ever wanted, everything he’s ever wished for that for a moment he thinks he’s going to embarrass himself and break down, but Sam squeezes him fingers one last time, and slowly draws his hand back, leaving the solid weight of the gun in Dean’s hand. Dean stopped praying many years ago, and he stopped hoping for dreams to come true before that, but right now, he’s prepared to do both, if he can just have this; have Sam with him.

He looks up, and finds Sam watching him. He smiles what he knows is a weak smile that’s fooling neither of them, but Sam doesn’t call him on it, just smiles back, and hands Dean the can of gas. Dean doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve Sam, but he thanks whoever is listening for his baby brother.

They grab shovels, and walk to the edge of the bridge, side by side, and just knowing that Sam’s there, that he’s real and whole, and that Dean can just reach out and touch him helps him ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. He tries not to look at the spot where he watched the coach tumble into the ravine below, and concentrates instead on the feel of Sam’s arm brushing gently against his as they walk, a subtle reassurance that Dean's grateful for.

The only way to get to the bottom of the gully is to clamber and slip down the steep embankment, and by the time they reach the bottom, they’re both muddy and bruised and the skin of their hands is scraped and sore. Dean thinks that all he needs to make the experience complete is for it to start raining. He keeps that thought to himself though, because with his luck lately, there’s no point tempting fate.

They’ve got no idea where the body of the missing passenger could be; it’s been almost a hundred years since the coach went over the bridge and although the stream is barely more than a trickle, a hundred years ago it was a decent sized river. Dean looks down the river bed. The body could be almost anywhere down stream. It was going to be a long day.

A couple of hours later, they’ve worked their way about a quarter mile down stream. Dean’s jeans are stiff with sticky mud, and Sam’s back is covered up to his neck where he’s landed on his ass at least twice that Dean's seen.

In the end, they find the remains through sheer dumb luck when Sam falls over his own too-damned-long legs for the third time, and ends up on his hands and knees, face-to-face with the empty eye sockets of a human skull. The look on his face is half surprise, half annoyance, and in any other circumstances Dean would be delighted to tease him endlessly over it, but right now, he just wants to get this over with and get the hell away from this place. He wants to a hot shower, hot food and about a week of sleep. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he also wants to press Sam down onto cool, clean sheets, and wrap himself around his brother until he can't tell where Sam ends and he begins.

It takes a while to locate all the bones, and they end up having to dig some of the smaller ones out with their fingers. Dean's not entirely sure they get them all, but frankly, he really doesn't care anymore. He's filthy, and certain he's got slime in places he doesn't want to think about.

Sam salts the pile of bones, and Dean douses them in gas. He tosses a lit match onto the makeshift pyre and sees the flames stutter, struggling to find a hold on the damp and muddy bones, despite the half gallon of gas he used, before catching and flaring into life so strongly that he and Sammy have to take a couple of steps back. He can tell Sam wants to be going, but he stays put, watching the bones slowly char and blacken, before crumbling into ash. There's a vindictive sense of satisfaction at destroying the thing that nearly killed Sammy, and something that comes perilously close to gratitude for being the reason he spent most of that morning in his brother's arms.

He waits until the last of the yellowed bones is nothing more than dust, then shoves his hands in his pockets, and turns his back on the remains. Sam's standing a couple of feet away, watching him.

"We done here Sammy?"

"Yeah. You ok?"

 _No. Yes. I don't know. I've never been happier, and I know it won't last, because nothing good, nothing that I want ever does._ "Yeah. I'm good. Let's go, I need a beer."

Sam doesn't look convinced, but he says nothing, just follows Dean in scrambling back up the embankment, and back to the car. They load up the gear, change out of the filthy clothes and climb into the car.

They drive until it's dark, and Sam looks like he's about to fall asleep at the wheel. He finally pulls into the first motel they find, and while it's hardly the Ritz, neither of them cares. Dean's uncertain, not knowing if Sam will want to share a bed; not knowing quite how he feels about asking. But sometimes having a psychic freak-show for a brother is a blessing, because after they've stripped down, too tired to do more than a token clean up, Sam slides between the thin sheets, leaving Dean standing beside the bed, a little unsure; a little nervous, as if sharing a bed was somehow worse than fucking his brother. Sam just reaches out, grabs Dean's wrists and pulls him down, until he slips in next to Sam. Once they've arranged themselves, Dean on his back, one hand under his head and Sam on his side, one hand resting on Dean's stomach, the jitters and the nerves seem to dissolve.

It feels so comfortable, so right to have Sam curled around him like this that Dean drifts into sleep within minutes. For once, his dreams are peaceful.

****

Sam wakes sometime before dawn, jolted sweating and shaking from a nightmare. He remembers Dean was missing, and he and Dad were hunting for him. Sam can still taste the terror and despair, and the gut-wrenching fear that he'd never find him, or worse, that he'd find him too late. His heart is racing, and he feels sick with the knowledge that this isn't so much a nightmare as a premonition.

He has to reach out and touch Dean, curl himself around his brother's body and rest his hand over Dean's heart, needing the reassurance that Dean's here, and safe, and _Sam's_. He lost Jess because he didn't pay attention to the warnings. He's damned if he'll lose Dean the same way. He's just found his brother again, just discovered the person behind the walls, and he'll die, he'll _kill_ before he lets anyone, **anyone** , take that away from him again.

The need to protect Dean, to keep him close and to guard him is so strong that it surprises Sam. He's never thought of himself as a particularly possessive person before, though he's always wanted to keep the people he cares about safe. He wants to hide Dean away, to keep him safe from anyone who might seek to harm him. The idea of even _trying_ to keep Dean locked away from the world is so ridiculous, so utterly impractical that Sam can't help but be amused. But as he watches the first light of dawn brighten the sky outside, an idea begins to take shape. He drops a kiss onto Dean's shoulder, and slides out of the bed, grabbing the laptop and sitting cross-legged on the other bed, attention caught between the computer and the temptation of crawling back into bed with Dean.

Eventually, he has what he was looking for, and he grins at the paper in his hand before tucking it carefully in his wallet. He closes the laptop, and rejoins Dean in the other bed, pressing up against Dean's back, one arm wrapped around his brother's waist. His brother. His lover. His to protect, his to love, and screw anyone who doesn't understand. It's not normal, even for them, but it's all they have, and it's enough to make Sam not care about trying to be normal anymore.

He holds his brother as the sun slowly rises, surrounded by the sight, sound, feel and scent of Dean. Thoughts and plans roll through his mind, and he's well aware that his plan isn't foolproof, and he's still got to persuade Dean to go along with it, but it's the best idea he's got. Eventually he slides into sleep, pressed as close to his brother as he can get.

*****

Weak sunlight filters between the cheap curtains, waking Dean. He finds that Sam's wrapped around him like a human blanket and he allows himself a few minutes to enjoy the feel of Sam's arms around him. If Dean could keep one moment in time, could preserve one memory above all others, he thinks that maybe it would be this one, when it feels as though everything and anything is possible, and that he might be allowed to keep what he wants.

Sam shifts behind him, and presses closer, burying his face in Dean's neck, breath tickling the sensitive skin. The rush of lust is sudden and intense. He holds his breath, teeth pulling at his lower lip, a little uncertain as to whether Sam is asleep or awake. Sam settles and his breathing evens out. Dean exhales and relaxes, at least until his bladder starts complaining. He manages to slide out from under Sam's arm without waking his brother.

Once he's relieved himself, he catches sight of his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. For the first time since he left the hospital, he doesn't turn away. Instead he takes a long look. Dark circles under his eyes, skin just a little too pale, eyes a little too dull. He can see why Sam's been so concerned about him. What he can't see is any outward sign of the way his world has changed. He can't see any visible evidence of the fact he's slept with his own brother.

Incest.

He repeats the word to himself, waiting for the shame, the disgust, the horror to kick in. But it's just a word, and he looks exactly the same as he did before he knew what it felt like to make love to his brother.

This isn't the first line he's crossed, and every time he expects to see some outward sign of the dark stain he's sure must be spreading across his soul. He's killed, he's lied, cheated, slept with more people than he can honestly remember, broken damn near every law, and now he's dragged his brother down with him. If he were stronger, he should make Sam leave, drive him as far away as possible, even though he knows that Sam's capable of making his own choices. But Sam's his one weakness, the one thing Dean can't give up, not now.

He looks away from the mirror and scrubs a hand over his face. He still feels a little off-balance, uncertain of himself and he doesn't like it. He needs to pull himself together before he makes another mistake. It's still a kick to the gut, the memory of almost losing Sammy, and Dean's not going to go through that again. He has to be alright, has to get a grip. He drags himself into the shower, and stands under the hot water until his skin is bright pink and the bathroom is filled with steam. The motel soap is cheap and harsh, and the chemical smell of it makes his eyes water and his nose itch, but he uses it anyway, allowing the familiar, soothing actions of washing and shaving to calm his thoughts, to soothe the jumble of wants and needs and hopes.

It feels as though he's been confused since the moment he woke up in the hospital, and frankly, he's getting a little sick of it. He's sick of living with the fear that Sammy's going to up and leave again; sick of trying to live up to Dad's expectations and share in his obsessions; sick of feeling fragile and out of control, of hurting and not knowing what he needs to make it stop, or of being too scared to take what he want, what he needs, in case it's taken away from him again. He wants his old self back. He wants to be able to hide behind the shallow, vain, arrogant mask he so carefully created, but he fears that it's shattered beyond repair.

Sam’s not going to let him recreate the mask anyway, and as much as Dean wants Sam, the thought of baring his soul anymore than he already has is a terrifying one. He doesn’t even know if he’s capable of being that honest, of being that vulnerable. But he knows that he’s still going try, because he’s always given Sam what he wants, and he probably always will. He’s not sure just how he feels about that right now.

He takes another long look at his reflection in the mirror, then wraps a towel around his hips and heads back into the bedroom. He's not surprised to find Sam awake and messing about on the laptop. He's half hopeful, half afraid that Sam's found them something else to chase. He doesn't want to put Sam at risk again, but he knows he needs to get back to doing the only thing he's ever really known, because without the hunting, what purpose does he have?

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean feels his heart sink a little. He knows that voice. It's Sam's 'I know you're probably not going like this idea, but I'm going to say it anyway because I know I'm going to get my own way eventually'. Dean hates that voice, it's gotten got him into more trouble than anything else.

"Yeah." He doesn't daren't look at Sam. It's hard enough to refuse Sam at the best of times, but with the change in their relationship, Dean really doesn't need the added distraction of Sam in nothing but boxers, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"I, uh... I." Sam coughs, and Dean realizes his brother is nervous, though it doesn't make him any less wary, it does please the more sadistic side of his nature.

"What?"

Sam takes a deep breath.

"Dean, I want us to get tattoos."

Dean makes the mistake of looking over at Sam. He sees the hopeful expression that has so often gone hand in hand with the ‘voice’, and he knows he’s doomed.

“You want _what_?”

“Tattoos.” His expression shifts, becoming serious. “I, I had a dream Dean. A premonition. About…us… _you_.” His expression melts into distress, and fear settles in Dean’s gut like a lead weight. “You were…missing, and I couldn’t find you.” Sam’s voice fades, distressed and unhappy, and he drops his eyes to his lap.

Dean crosses the room, and cups Sam’s chin. He can’t help the small, selfish part of him that never ceases to be warmed by such demonstrations of how much Sam cares.

“Sammy, it’s ok. Maybe it’s just a dream.” He doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to reassure.

“It wasn’t.”

“You sure?"

“Yes. Dean, I'm not going to make the same mistake with you that I made with Jess.”

“Sam, Jess… her death wasn’t your fault.”

“Don’t, ok?” He pulls away from Dean.

Dean wants to hold Sam, wants to shake him until he can convince his brother that nothing he could have done would have saved Jess once the demon had decided to kill her.

“Sam…”

“It’s not about Jess anymore. It’s about you, now. If anything does happen to you, if you should… disappear, I need to know I’ve got a way to find you.”

“Well, ok, but I still don’t see how a tattoo is going to help. Unless you’re thinking of writing ‘Property of Sam Winchester’, and I love you man, but you can forget that idea.”

Sam manages a grin and much to Dean’s relief, shakes his head.

“No. I did some research, and I think the best thing is a rune spell.”

“A what?”

“A rune spell. You know, runes. The druids used them to…”

“Sam. I know what runes are. Don’t look at me like that, I do. So what kind of spell?”

“Protection, bonding, healing, kinship, positive energy.” He hands Dean a scrap of paper inscribed with seven runes, their names and their meanings. It makes Dean realize that Sam’s serious about this.

Dean wants to refuse. He’s not real keen on the idea of something so potentially powerful being permanently etched on his skin, but Sam’s so earnest, so sincere, that it’s pointless to resist.

“And you want me to get this as a tattoo?”

“Both of us. I want both of us to have this tattoo.”

“And I suppose you’ve already figured out where to go to get this done?”

Sam has the grace to look slightly sheepish, but it’s little consolation against the realisation that Sam’s got this all planned out.

“I’ve found someone who knows how to empower the spell at the same time as tattooing it, and they’re only a couple of days from here.”

Dean sighs.

“Ok, fine. If it’s going to make you feel better. Anything to stop you acting like girl all the damned time.”

Sam rolls his eyes, then grins, grateful and loving and Dean can’t help but lean down and kiss his brother. He meant for it to be a quick kiss, chaste and restrained. But Sam opens his lips and then they’re _really_ kissing, deep and wet and when Sam slides a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls, Dean goes willingly. He ends up sitting in Sam’s lap, thighs spread over Sam’s. Dean wonders if this is always how it’s going to be between them. Wonders whether he’ll survive if it’s taken away from him again.

Sam tugs the towel away from Dean’s waist, and twists until Dean’s flat on his back on the bed, under his brother. Sam trails his mouth over Dean’s jaw, down his neck, fingers stroking over Dean’s chest, a hint of nail making him arch towards Sam. There’s something almost reverent about the way Sam touches him, and it makes Dean feel ten feet tall, and totally unworthy of that adoration.

He tries to move, tries to reciprocate, but Sam presses him back down, and whispers “Let me do this” against the skin of Dean’s stomach. He can’t help the way his hips jerk, and his breath catches when Sam slides his mouth slowly down over Dean’s cock. Christ, it’s the dirtiest and the hottest thing Dean can imagine, and he doesn’t know whether he’s furious, jealous, or grateful that this clearly isn’t the first time Sam’s done this.

Sam’s tongue flicks against the underside of Dean’s cock, and somehow he’s got hold of the lube, because one of those freakishly long fingers is sliding into Dean and _fuck_ , that’s good. He’s not used to letting someone else take control, but he trusts Sam, trusts him with his life, his soul, and whether he wants to or not, with his heart.

If it were anyone but Sam, he’d be vaguely embarrassed by how quickly he comes, but he’s too surprised by the rush of orgasm to care. He’s still too sated and boneless to move, even as Sam crawls up his body, and kisses him, making Dean pull faces at the taste. The slow slide of Sam’s cock inside him dispels some of the lethargy, and he arches into his brother, hands clutching at Sam’s shoulders, hips catching Sam’s rhythm. Sam’s gentle, his strokes are long and slow, but deep, and the sensation is right on the edge between pleasure and over sensitivity. It doesn’t take too long before Sammy’s motion becomes erratic, and then he freezes, buried as deep as he can get in Dean’s body, shuddering and gasping Dean’s name, over and over.

Sam pulls back, making Dean wince slightly.

“Damn, I’m sorry…”

“Sam, shut the hell up. You ruined the last afterglow, let me have this one in peace, ok?”

Sam laughs, and slumps next to Dean. The atmosphere between them is easy, comfortable. If this is the way they’re going to spend all their mornings, Dean thinks that maybe he doesn’t want his old self back, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the premonition, Sam feels lighter and more carefree than he has for a long time. He showers and dresses quickly, wanting to be on the road. Now that he's got Dean to agree to the tattoos, he wants to get them done as soon as possible, wants Dean to be protected and them to be bound together. Once upon a time, the idea of being bound to Dean would have horrified him - not because of Dean himself, but because of what Dean represented to the child Sam still was. Now, Sam barely recognizes his younger self, and he hates the ignorance, and arrogance of youth that caused him to wound Dean so deeply, and so often.

They load up the car, and start driving. Sam drives for eight hours straight, and would have driven through the night, but for the fact that Dean threatens to shoot him if he doesn't stop for a rest. It's been a full nine hours on the road by the time Sam finally pulls into the parking lot of a motel. Dean goes to get them a room, while Sam eases himself out of the car, ostensibly to stretch his legs, although in reality, he wants to keep an eye on Dean. The dream has left him unwilling to take his eyes off Dean, at least until they've got the tattoos and he has some way to find Dean, no matter where he is.

Dean returns with the room key, and they make their way over to the burger bar next door, where Sam barely tastes the burger Dean makes him eat. He's too busy watching Dean. Now that he's seeing his brother through the eyes of a lover, he can finally see and appreciate the beauty in front of him, and he can't help but think of the way Dean looks when he's caught in the throes of passion. He shifts, feeling the stir of arousal, despite the fact he's had more sex over the last few days than he had for over a year before that.

"Sam, you're doing the staring thing again. Would you just cut it out?"

Dean's not looking at him, and Sam would swear that there's the faintest hint of color across those cheekbones. The thought that Dean might actually be just a little bit shy about Sam looking at him gives Sam the nerve to lean forward and whisper.

"I was just thinking about going to our room, and bending you over the furniture. Or maybe I'll just pin you against the car and let you fuck my mouth." He knows he's blushing slightly too, hoping Dean doesn't laugh at him. The shiver that Dean clearly can't quite suppress boosts Sam's confidence no end, and has him more than half hard.

He watches Dean swallow, then slowly his brother lifts his head and heavily dilated eyes meet his. Dear God, that look has Sam wanting to do things he's not sure he could even put a name to.

"Then why are we still here?" Jesus, Dean's voice is rough and deep and Sam swears it's the sexiest thing he's heard in a long time.

They walk back to the room and when Dean unlocks the door, Sam follows him in. His pulse jumps when he realizes that there's only one large bed in the room. He knows from the lack of cars in the parking lot that the motel is virtually empty, which means that Dean specifically requested a double, rather than two singles. The fact that they are clearly on the same page, for once in their lives, makes Sam ridiculously, idiotically happy.

He reaches out and catches Dean's arm, feeling the muscles beneath his hand tense, then relax, as Dean resists the fight or flight instinct. Sam feels a moment of anger at Dad for instilling that in Dean, in them both. He forgets to be mad though, when Dean turns round to face him, and shrugs off his jacket. Such a simple action, now imbued with so many layers of meaning.

Sam tugs his brother closer, and steps forward himself. They meet halfway, chest to chest, groin to groin, Dean tipping his head back slightly as Sam bends his forward, lips meeting and tongues tangling. Of all the things they've done, this seems the strangest, to be standing in the middle of a motel room, kissing his brother with the definite intention of taking him to bed.

Between them they manage to strip each others shirts off without breaking the kiss for more than a few seconds. Sam has to pull back though, when Dean slides a hand down the front of his jeans, fingers stroking and teasing through the cotton of Sam's boxers. Sam can't help thrusting into the touch, but eventually he gathers what's left of his wits, and grabs Dean's wrist. He pulls his brother's hand out of his pants, feeling the sudden tension in the body against his. Dean tries to pull back, and Sam wonders if they'll ever be able to erase Dean's deep seated fear of rejection.

"Dean, let me. Trust me."

Dean's answer is a shaky breath, and a nod.

Sam lets go of Dean's wrist, and wraps a hand around Dean's neck, pulling his brother in for another kiss, slow and wet and so good Sam can feel it all the way to his toes. He pulls away, and slides to his knees. His hands are almost trembling when he opens Dean's fly and tugs his jeans and boxers down to his knees.

"Sammy..." Sam had thought he'd heard every way Dean's voice could sound broken, but he guesses he was wrong, because _fuck_ , the way he sounds when he says his name then makes Sam’s heart pound just that little bit harder.

Sam wants to take this slow, wants to make Dean feel as loved and wanted and protected as Dean’s so often made him feel. He slides his mouth down over Dean’s cock, feeling his brother tremble against him. There's a sense of power in knowing he can make his big brother shake, just from his hands on Dean's skin, from the heat of his mouth, dragging over the soft skin of Dean's cock.

"Jesus, Sammy. Oh God..."

The temptation to pull Dean to the floor and crawl up his brother's body and fuck him until they can't move is so strong, but Sam wants to do this right, wants to give Dean this, to prove that they're in this together, as equals.

He works Dean until his jaw starts to ache, until Dean's shuddering and clearly fighting not to thrust into Sam's mouth. Finally, Sam pulls back, closing his eyes as Dean lets out something close to a whimper at the loss of stimulation. Sam stands and walks Dean backwards towards the bed, flashes behind his eyes of the first time he did this, the night on the bridge.

He strips Dean, then himself, amused by the way Dean is apparently unable to form a coherent thought; the way he's so pliant and obedient. There have been many times over the years when Sam would have killed to have been able to reduce Dean to such submissiveness. Sam wonders if this will ever get old, wanting Dean like this. He wonders if he'll ever be able to keep his hands away from his brother, now that he's tasted this.

It's not until he's pressed Dean down onto the bed, and crawled up his body that he realizes that he's left the lube in their bags, which are still in the car. He drops his forehead to rest against Dean's, trying to ignore the way his brother's body arches into his, one leg hooked around Sam's hip. He's certain he can summon up the willpower to go get the lube, providing he can ignore the way Dean's cock brushes against his, and the way Dean's making quiet noises, whimpers and pants and little 'oh' sounds that would be amusing if Sam weren't so painfully aroused.

"Damn."

"What?"

"Lube's in the car."

Dean shivers and Sam can't help but thrust back against him. It's a poor imitation of what he wants, but it's still good.

" _Christ_ , Sammy..."

"I know."

Dean fucking _writhes_ under Sam, and it makes Sam hiss and dig his nails into his brother’s skin. The thought that Dean’s going to be wearing those marks tomorrow is doing nothing to help Sam’s frustration.

"You could get it." Dean's mouthing at Sam's neck now, and there's just no way Sam is going to be able to leave the bed, let alone find some clothes, get dressed and go out to the car. He snorts, and he feels Dean's body ripple as his brother laughs, softly, breathlessly, warm breath tickling his ear.

"I don't think so..." he tells Dean.

Another laugh, and Sam has to grin. It feels wonderful to be lying there with Dean and sharing the amusement. Lately, everything has been intense and strained and despite their frustrated arousal, it's liberating and soothing to feel so in tune with his brother again.

"Got an idea. Get off me, freak."

Dean wriggles beneath him, and that's really not encouraging Sam to move much. He presses his hips down, trapping Dean between his body and the bed.

"I said _off_." Dean heaves, and suddenly Sam's on his back, Dean stretched out over him, smirking. He stands, and offers Sam a hand up, then drags Sam towards what Sam assumes is the bathroom.

"Dean, what the hell...?"

Dean shoves him into the bathroom, and into the shower, then he crowds in behind Sam, his chest against Sam's back, before reaching around and turning the shower on. Sam yelps at the first spray of water because it's cold, and Dean snickers, until Sam jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. Dean moves behind him, and then his hand snakes around Sam's waist again, and he catches Sam's cock in a soap slick hand, and strokes, firm and steady, neither fast nor slow, and Sam rocks onto tiptoes, caught by surprise.

Dean's grip is knowing, confident and Sam feels a small surge of jealousy about the thought that Dean's touched someone else like this. But he can't concentrate on anything but the way Dean's handling him, his other hand also reaching around, and rolling his balls in a warm, gentle hand. Dean's cock presses against him, sliding between the cheeks of his ass for a few strokes then slipping down and riding slickly between his thighs, the tip just brushing the back of Sam's balls when Dean presses forward.

Sam shudders, and squeezes his thighs more tightly together, loving the gasp and hard thrust that provokes. It's not the same as fucking his brother, but it's good. The various sensations blend until Sam can barely separate them in his mind. Dean's hot breath fans across the back of his neck, and every so often, his brother drags his teeth over the ridges of Sam's spine.

The orgasm, when it finally hits, matches the rhythm of Dean's hand, slow and languid, the sensation washing over him until he's drained and has to brace his hands against the cold tiles. Dean lets go of Sam's cock and balls, and digs his fingers into his hips instead, and the thought that they’ll be wearing matching bruises tomorrow is a damned sight hotter than Sam thinks it should be. He lets Dean drive against him, despite the fact that his legs are shaking, and the inside of his thighs are starting to burn from the friction. When Dean finally comes, he's almost silent, and he sinks his teeth into Sam's shoulder, not quite hard enough to bruise.

Sam turns under the lukewarm water, and slides a hand into Dean's hair, then angles their heads for a kiss. There's something so intimate, so _fundamental_ somehow about the way they kiss. Kissing Jess when they were sated and weak kneed was electrifying, like lightening during a thunder storm. It felt like a promise of things to come. Kissing Dean is like warm sunny afternoons and the smell of autumn. Like coming home to a place you know you'll always be welcome, where they’ll always have a space for you no matter what.

When he pulls back, Dean licks his lips and grins at Sam. It's all Sam can do not to kiss him again. But instead he shakes his head, and shoves his brother until he gets out of the shower. Sam follows him, and they fight over the towels briefly, as they used to when they were kids. Eventually they dry off, and Dean slips a t-shirt and his jeans and boots on and goes to bring their bags in.

Sam watches him go through the usual routine of checking windows and doors, then Dean strips once again and slides a knife under the pillow, despite Sam's glare, and climbs into the bed.

It still feels a little odd, to share a bed with Dean like this, as lovers. But there's also something comforting about knowing that Dean's right there, close enough for Sam to reach out and touch. Sam closes his eyes, and listens as Dean drifts slowly to sleep, then he rolls onto his side, and rests a hand on Dean's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He fights sleep for as long as he can, fearing more nightmares, but eventually, he succumbs and follows his brother into sleep.

****

When Sam wakes the next morning, he's wrapped around his brother again, and for once, he's slept past dawn. He doesn't remember dreaming at all, let alone nightmares. He doesn't know whether to be relieved, or concerned.

He untangles himself from Dean, and heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. Dean's still asleep when he returns, and loathe as Sam is to wake him, he's itching to be back on the move again. If they make good time, they should reach the tattooist by lunchtime, and Sam still won't feel truly comfortable until they've got the tattoos done.

After he's woken Dean, and they've dressed and grabbed breakfast, they set off again. Dean sprawls in the passenger seat, dozing while Sam drives.

They reach the tattoo parlor by early afternoon, and Sam finds it hard to hide his relief, and anticipation. He's tried to deny it to himself, but there is a part of him that views the tattoos as a way of leaving a permanent, indelible sign on his brother that links them to each other, that marks Dean as forever being Sam's.

The tattooist is waiting for them, and the shop is empty but for the three of them. Dean is clearly uneasy, and Sam has to admit that he's a little nervous too. He makes Dean go first, and the furious look that Dean throws his way makes Sam grin. He knows he'll pay for this later, but these days, that threat just makes his breath catch, and his cock twitch.

He lets Dean choose where the tattoo will go, and he picks the small of the back. Sam agrees, loving the idea of that relatively simple mark at the base of that well defined back.

The tattooist takes a drop of blood from each of them, then settles Dean so he's comfortable. Sam sits close by, and as the tattooist begins, the buzz of the tattoo gun loud in the otherwise quiet room, Sam begins the recitation of the spell, trying to imbue it with as much of his will as he can.

****

Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails. Witches blood and unicorn horn and werewolf fur.

That's what people think spells are. Dean knows better. He knows that spells are not revolting ingredients, but words and _intent_. Because even the words can be worthless if the person saying them doesn't _mean_ them. The only ingredient that some spells, older and more powerful, _darker_ spells require is blood. So when he discovered that not only is a drop of Sam's blood going into the ink for his tattoo, and vice versa, but that Sam'd be reciting the spell while it's etched into Dean's skin, and vice versa, he knows that whatever this spell is, it's damned powerful.

It's surreal, the buzz of the tattoo gun almost drowns out Sam's voice, as he recites the spell, his lips almost brushing Dean's ear as he does. Dean closes his eyes, and grips Sam's hand tighter and tries to quell the faint sense of fear at the tingle that he can feel, even through the sting and burn of the tattoo; a tingle that tells him the spell is working, that it's sinking into his flesh and blood and soul, and marking him forever. A permanent bond between them that will last for the rest of their lives, and quite possibly beyond.

It feels as if he sits there forever, and Sam's voice is nearly hoarse by the time the tattoo is finished. Dean can feel his body protesting when he finally stands up, stretching muscles cramped from sitting in the same position for too long. He turns to the long mirror in the shop, and twists so he can see the tattoo. But it's Sam's face, reflected in the glass, and unaware of Dean's scrutiny that makes him pause. His brother's expression is a mix of pleasure, relief and possessiveness. It's so unlike Sam that it stuns Dean for a minute. But then the tattooist is carefully stroking lotion and taping gauze over the tattoo.

Sam takes his place in the chair. He's chosen to have his tattoo between his shoulder blades. Dean sits by him, and Sam grabs his hand, holding as tightly as Dean did, and Dean sets aside his worries and curiosity and concentrates on reciting the spell properly, on putting every emotion he feels for Sam into the words. It seems to take even longer this time, and when the tattooist finally finishes, Dean's throat is dry and sore. But when he sees that tattoo on Sam's back, he understands exactly what Sam felt. It's a visible, tangible sign of every thing they mean to each other, of the bond, the tie between them.

Once it's all done, and they've paid, and the tattooist has closed the door behind them they get gingerly into the car. Sam voices the exact thought that's running through Dean's head.

"I think we might have to take a few days off, let these heal before we think about hunting."

"Yeah. Be a shame to go through all this only to ruin the damned things."

To be honest, Dean doesn't mind. The tattoo is starting to burn and ache now, and honestly, he thinks he's almost ready to start hunting again. So the idea of a few days of doing nothing with Sam before finding their next gig sounds like a really good idea. He reckons they'll need six or seven days, maybe eight max before the tattoos are healed sufficiently.

He settles down in the car, slides is sunglasses on and closes his eyes.

“Sam, wake me up when we get to where ever the hell it is we’re going.”

When Sam laughs, Dean cracks an eye open, and the sight of Sam laughing, happy again makes him think that whatever his own misgivings about the tattoos, the effect they’ve had on Sam is worth it, as far as Dean is concerned.

****

It's been ten days since they got the tattoos. Days that Dean would have resented before the change in their relationship, hating the enforced break from hunting and chafing at the inactivity.

Ten days of the same motel room, of Sam insisting they eat three proper meals a day, of watching daytime TV and surfing the net, of sleeping late, waking wrapped around each other. But it's not the days that have dulled Dean's normal reaction to spending too long in one place, it's the nights.

Ten nights spent in a sweaty tangle of limbs and sheets, the smell of sex heavy in the air. Dean can barely remember what they did to pass the days, the time has blurred in his memory, but every single second of the nights is crystal clear, permanently etched in his memory. Nights where he's memorised the way Sam sounds, and feels, and tastes; the things that make Sam writhe, that make him shudder, that make him gasp and beg and say Dean's name over and over again until his voice is hoarse and Dean no longer knows why they shouldn't be doing this.

He still can't quite shake the feeling that this is dangerous, that he's not only leaving himself open to being broken if, _when_ Sam leaves, but that he's somehow corrupting Sam, tainting him with some of the darkness that Dean fears will consume him one day.

But he can't stop, can't refuse Sam anything, not even this, and God help him, but he needs it too. Needs the connection to Sam, needs the hope, however desperate.

The tattoos have finally healed, more or less and when they're together in bed, moonlight leaking through the flimsy curtains, neither of them are able to stop touching the marks. Sam likes to curl up against Dean, face to face and drape an arm over Dean's waist and run his fingers gently over the tattoo at the base of Dean's spine. It makes Dean shiver, arouses him and makes him feel connected to Sam in a way that really would be scary if he could actually think straight when Sam does it. It's almost as though every time Sam touches the tattoo, it strengthens the bond.

There's still the fear that Sam's going to leave, but when Sam's wrapped around him, when they're as close as they can be, skin against skin and they're lost in each other, he can't feel it. No matter what happens, this bond will never die. And that scares Dean a little, because he knows what that kind of shit can do; knows that if one of them dies, there's a chance the other one won't survive the loss. Or worse, if they survive, that they'll be driven to do something stupid.

He's also pretty certain that if Dad ever finds any of this out, he'll go crazy. Which will leave Dean back where he's always been, stuck between Sam and Dad and knowing that whatever he says or does is going to be wrong somehow. Except that this time, there's a fairly good chance Dad will actually kill him.

He figures he should be _terrified_ that not even the thought of Dad finding out can make him even contemplate giving this up, giving Sammy up, again. There's certainly a small part of his mind that has been screaming for the last few weeks, but Dean's gotten used to ignoring it now.

He glances over at Sam, watching his brother concentrate on the road. They're finally moving again, and though Dean's glad to be back on the road, a part of him misses the lazy sensuality of the last few days. He can't deny that he feels stronger, calmer and more like his old self. Whether it's the result of the break, of having Sam with him, of _having_ Sam, or the tattoos, he can't tell, and it really doesn't matter much. He can feel the hope he's learnt to keep locked away threatening to escape, and he's almost ready to let it drown him.

They're together, and they're hunting. It's not exactly his most cherished dream, but it's so damned close it might as well be. And despite the hope, that still scares him more than any monster they've ever hunted.

*****

Sam can feel Dean watching him. Hell, he can _feel_ Dean, like a gentle buzz in the back of his mind. It's been getting stronger every day since they had the tattoos done. The tattoos and the last week and a half have gone a long way to easing some of his fears. He hasn't had the nightmare since, but he doesn't for an instant believe that means that they're safe. This new connection with Dean helps. At least now he knows that if anything does happen to his brother, he'll be able to find him. Already he can tell roughly where Dean is when they're apart, over longer and longer distances.

Every so often, he'll also get a flash of something else. It's always brief, a split second of feeling whatever emotion Dean's feeling, there and gone again before he even realizes it. He suspects that somehow his abilities are boosting the bond. The unexpected side effect is good as far as Sam is concerned, but there's no way he's going to mention it to Dean. He knows his brother well enough to know that he'd be very uneasy if he thought Sam could tell what he was feeling, however random and short those glimpses were.

He can't deny that the thought of Dean wearing a permanent reminder of their bond gives him a possessive thrill as well. The fact that Dean agreed so easily to the idea warms Sam in ways he can't quite name.

They don't have a destination in mind. Sam would have been happy to have stayed longer, but he could tell that Dean was starting to get restless. So they packed up the car, picked a direction and Sam's been driving ever since.

When Dean turns away, watching the road, fingers tapping in time to the Black Sabbath tape he bought in the last gas station they stopped at, Sam turns his head so he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean looks rested, healthier than he has since before the crash. He seems more relaxed, more like his old, cocky self, and while Sam isn't sure he wants every aspect of that Dean back, he's glad that his brother seems to be healing, slowly. He'd hated seeing Dean so broken, so lost and vulnerable, so drained and empty. What they're doing might be wrong, but nothing has felt as right to Sam as the last ten days, spent wrapped in a world that consisted of just him and Dean.

He wonders if they've been heading for this since the day Dean came to find him at Stanford, maybe even since the day the demon killed Mom. He wonders too what Dean thinks about the change in their relationship, but getting Dean to talk about his feelings is difficult at the best of times, and Sam's too relieved to see his brother starting to heal to risk pushing him too hard yet. He doesn't really need the words anyway. He knows how Dean feels; he sees it in his brother's eyes every day, feels it when they touch, hears it when Dean whispers his name.

Sometimes he catches Dean looking at him when he thinks Sam isn't aware of it. The look on his brother's face is a mixture of fear, surprise, awe and hope, and it somehow manages to make Sam feel humbled and ten feet tall, all at the same time. Sam thinks, _hopes_ , that every day he stays the fear withers a little more, and the hope grows. That's Sam's goal now. Not finding Dad, not even finding the demon anymore. He still wants the bastard dead for what it did to mom, to Jess, for what it almost did to Dean, for what it's done to all of them; Dad, Dean and himself, but not at the cost of their lives. Not if the price is risking his brother's life again.

It's late afternoon when they pull into the first motel they've seen in hours. It's a relief to get out of the car and stretch his legs, but Sam forgets the dull ache of spending too long driving when he glances over and sees Dean stretching too. The almost too tight gray t-shirt rides up, exposing an inch or so of tanned skin that Sam _knows_ is soft and smooth and he's pretty much ready to forgo dinner and just get a room. A small, detached part of his mind is amused by the fact that now he's unlocked the physical attraction to his brother, even the smallest, seemingly innocent things are enough to make his hard, make him wish for a bed and hours of uninterrupted peace. It's still so new, the lust Dean can inspire that it catches him by surprise, almost every time, despite the fact that they've moved so smoothly from brothers to lovers.

Dean is completely oblivious to Sam's scrutiny as he finishes stretching and tugs his shirt and jacket back down. Not seeing the strip of skin helps, a little, though Sam knows exactly how it feels to run his hands and his tongue over it. Knows how it feels and tastes and knows too the hot, helpless noises Dean makes when he does just that.

He watches Dean walk to the motel lobby, feeling the now familiar sense of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. They've spent two weeks as lovers, fucking each other in every conceivable position and it's still not enough. Sam's afraid it may never be enough. He hopes it's never enough.

The part of his mind that isn't consumed with watching the way Dean walks and remembering the way his body flexes when Sam takes him is amused by the way that becoming lovers has left him far more aware of Dean, of his physical presence. Things that he's never consciously been aware of before are brought sharply into focus now. The way Dean walks, the way his lips look after he's licked them. Now Sam watches, and overlaying these normal things are the memories of the way Dean's hips roll and his back arches when Sam drives into him, the flex of his shoulders when he's taking Sam, teeth biting his lip and frowning with concentration.

When Dean returns, room key dangling from his fingers, they unload the car and Sam can't help standing just a little closer than he would normally. Close enough that their arms and shoulders, and occasionally their hips brush, sparking small tingles of desire rippling over his skin. It's so strange to feel the constant attraction that all new lovers have towards his brother, but Sam can't deny the strangeness doesn't seem to be dimming the desire any.

He's tempted to skip dinner and spend the evening feasting on Dean instead, but he's hungry and they'll have time later to try out the bed. And the chair. And the table. And if Sam doesn't stop thinking like this, they won't make it out of the room.

Dean's smirk when Sam turns to him tells Sam that his brother knows exactly what Sam was thinking. He gets the feeling that Dean wouldn't refuse if Sam suggested staying in, and sometimes it worries him, how much Dean has always been prepared to give up for the sake of his family, for Sam and Dad. It's entirely possible that there is _nothing_ Dean won't do for those he loves, even at the expense of what Dean himself wants or needs. Sam's sure Dean wants this as much as he does, but he can't shake that small doubt that maybe this is just another sacrifice for Dean.

It shames Sam slightly that there's a large part of him that doesn't care, that justifies that careless disregard of his brother's needs by promising to treat Dean as well as he deserves, or better. Dean's called him selfish more than once, and at times like this, Sam understands why. But it's not enough to make him give this up. Not now, maybe not ever. And maybe that makes him as bad as Dad, relying on Dean's unswerving, unflinching loyalty, but it would take a stronger man than Sam to walk away from this. He remembers Dean's words at the cabin _"For you or Dad, the things I’m willin’ to do or kill, it just….it scares me sometimes."_. It scares Sam too, and saddens him that Dean's been forced to kill, been forced too often to be the one to take care of Sam, of the family, forced to grow up so fast. Too often left with the responsibility and too seldom given praise for it.

Sam shakes off the maudlin thoughts, and catches Dean looking at him with a concerned look. He shakes his head and grins at his brother, jerking his head towards the door. Dean reads his meaning easily, falling back into the unspoken code they've used since they were kids, and they walk to the diner down the street in comfortable silence.

****

Dean knows that Sam watches him when he thinks Dean isn't looking; Dean's spent too many years hunting not to know when someone is watching him. He catches Sam's expression sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, or reflected in a window. Sometimes his brother looks concerned, which makes Dean nervous that they're heading for another of Sam's endless attempts at a heart to heart conversation. Other times, it's lust, pure and simple and that Dean does know how to deal with. Hell, he's spent most of his teen and adult years being on the receiving end of those kind of looks.

When they get to the diner and settle down to study the menu, Dean gets the chance to see a new look. The waitress is young, perky in all senses of the word, blonde and pretty. Dean grins at her, though he has no intention of flirting with her at all, and the expression that flows over Sam's face is all too clear. Jealousy. Baby brother is actually jealous of a bubble-headed waitress from the back of beyond. He considers flirting with her, just to yank Sam's chain a little, but the flash of hurt that Sam isn't quick enough to hide stops him.

Instead, he tones the smile down, and deliberately sticks to being polite, but uninterested, despite her attempts to flirt with him. He can sense Sam's annoyance and it's both amusing and perversely arousing to see a hint of the possessive streak that he'd thought Sam had outgrown. Sam was never good with sharing things he cared about and though at one time that included his big brother, Dean never expected to be reinstated to that list after Sam had grown out of his childish hero worship for Dean.

While they're waiting for their food, Sam snags a local paper that's been left on the table next to them, and Dean tries to ignore the waitress who's still throwing longing looks in his direction. He leans back in the seat, listening to the way the cheap plastic crinkles beneath him. The bottle of ketchup has a crust around the cap that Dean suspects is almost as old as he is, and there's no salt in the salt shaker. They've been in a thousand almost identical restaurants, and despite what Sam thinks, Dean's hated them almost as much as Sam has.

He loves the hunting, needs to know he's helping people and he knows that Sam would say it's because he's trying to make up for the fact that he couldn't save Mom, by trying to stop it happening to anyone else. Maybe Sam's right, and maybe he isn't, all Dean knows is that he can't imagine a life without hunting. It's all he's ever done and he can't sit back and do nothing when he knows what's out there, in the dark. It's the one thing he's never understood about Sam leaving, how his brother could carry on with a normal life when he knew what the world was really like, when he knew about the evil that walks amongst the unsuspecting general population.

He's so lost in his thoughts that Sam's voice actually makes him jump a little.

"Hey, I think I found something in our line of work." He ignores the smirk on Sam's face that means Sam noticed Dean's reaction.

"A hunt?"

"Maybe."

"Well, what is it?"

"Looks like there's been a recent spate of graves being disturbed in the local cemetery."

Dean's just about to ask a question when the waitress comes over with their meal. Dean watches Sam glare at her, although the girl's oblivious to the looks. Dean just nods and waits until she's gone.

"Sam." He waits until Sam's looking at him "Stop glaring at the locals. I'm not going home with anyone but you, so knock off the jilted lover act, ok?" Sam's expression is a mixture of indignation, happiness, shock and shame, and Dean couldn't say which element amuses him more. He grabs his silverware, and points to the paper with them before attacking his dinner.

"So, were any bodies in those graves disturbed?"

Sam just stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head, grins a little ruefully and picks up his own knife and fork, giving the ketchup bottle a considering look before obviously coming to the same conclusion as Dean and doing without.

"Ok, I can't believe we're having this conversation over dinner..." Dean gives him his best 'are you kidding' look and Sam sighs "..fine, I can. Anyway, the newspaper report says that the bodies in the graves were disturbed. Doesn't say anything about them being eaten, but that doesn't mean they weren't."

"Worth looking into though. Could be a ghoul or something."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You want to check out the cemetery after we're done here?"

Dean looks out of the window. There are a few hours of daylight left, and after the last hunt, he wants all the advantages he can get on this one, wants to make sure it goes down right and he doesn't screw up again. He can still feel the cold knot of fear in his stomach, but hunting is all he's got apart from Sammy, and he needs to get back into the swing. Besides, he hates ghouls.

"Definitely. We'll see if we can make sure it is a ghoul and where's its lair is, then we can come back after sunset and waste the sick fuck."

****

Sam _really_ hates ghouls. They are evil, aggressive, repulsive things, and they have a really nasty tendency to explode when shot.

Confirming that the cemetery was being plagued by a ghoul was easy, as was finding it's lair. Tracking it was harder, and the damned thing gets the drop on them first.

They'd split up when they got to the cemetery and found the thing was already out prowling around the graves. Sam's heading back towards his brother when he feels a wave of pain. It's muted and he knows instantly it's not his pain but Dean's. He's on the edge of panic, but he forces himself to concentrate and block out the fear, trying to feel for the bond, needing the connection to be able to find Dean. It feels like an age before he finally gets a hold of himself, but when he does, he gets a flash of the scene through Dean's eyes. He's running before he can see through his own eyes again, the image of the ghoul advancing on a stunned Dean, murderous claws drawing back to open Dean's guts so the ghoul can feed on them giving him extra speed.

He reaches them just as the ghoul slashes at Dean, who's still groggy, but quick enough to avoid being disemboweled. Sam doesn't hesitate and he's not sure who is the more surprised when he pumps two shots into the thing; Dean, the ghoul, or Sam himself.

The ghoul disintegrates. Unfortunately, Dean’s right in the way when the thing does blow, and he ends up covered in dripping, stinking goo from head to foot. Sam would be amused by the expression of disgusted outrage, if he wasn't still sick with fear at how close the thing came to killing Dean. As it is, he has to fight down the hysterical giggles that threaten to break loose.

"Man, I fucking _hate_ these sons of bitches." Dean tries to wipe the mess off his face and glares at the smoking pile of gunge in indignation. For a moment, Sam thinks his brother is going to kick what's left of the ghoul, but he doesn't. Sam takes a deep breath and though it helps him get himself under control, he wishes he hadn't, because the thing smells _bad_.

"Damn, I need a shower."

Dean's walking away, back towards the car, and Sam has to hurry after him.

"You hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"Dean, stop a second, I know that thing got you with it's claws. We should clean them up, that crap can't be healthy."

"We can do that back at the motel. Wait, you saw the thing get me? Why didn't you shoot it? What the hell were you waiting for?" Dean's stopped and he's staring at Sam in confusion and anger.

"I... I didn't _see_ it. It was a vision, of a kind."

"Of a kind? You want to be a little more specific here, Sam?"

"The tattoos, they created a bond."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Well, I guess my...powers are, I don't know, boosting it, because if I concentrate I can tell where you are, and when I tried earlier, I got a sudden image of the ghoul attacking you. I got there as fast as I could Dean."

Dean just looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"Did you know this would happen when you suggested the tattoos?"

"No, not exactly. And it's not like you didn't know what the tattoos and the rituals meant when I told you about them Dean. You agreed."

For a second Sam thinks he's gone too far, but Dean's acting like Sam's tricked him into something and he can't help the annoyance in his voice.

"I know, but I didn't expect...this. It's just odd, you know."

Sam wants to laugh. All the things Dean's seen and hunted and killed, and he thinks _this_ is odd?

"It'll just take a little getting used to." Dean grins and Sam relaxes again. "But you think next time you can fine tune it so you turn up before the bad guy gets to take a pop at me?"

He turns to carry on walking towards the car and Sam follows him.

"Dean, wait, I still need to check you out."

Dean laughs, low and dirty and he realizes his words can be taken an entirely different way.

"Later Sam. Let's just get back to the motel."

"Damnit Dean, would you just let me take a look?" Sometimes Dean can be such an jerk that Sam wants to shake him. He catches his brother up and falls into step beside him.

"It's fine Sam. Just a scratch."

"Yeah, well, you're so determined to be a _hero_ that your arm could be hanging half off and you'd still just be saying it was a scratch."

"Sammy, it's nothing, ok? You can play doctor at the motel and kiss me better then, if that's what gets you hard."

Sam ignores the suggestive tone and the mock leer, though his body doesn't.

"Dean, just let me take a look. Please?"

They reach the car and he opens the trunk as Dean strips off his jacket and over shirt before dumping them into the trunk.

"Sam. It's the middle of the night and I'm covered in ghoul guts. I just want to get back to the motel, get out of these clothes, into the shower, and then into you. Alright?"

There's something about the way Dean says it, so casually, as if they've been lovers for years, that makes Sam's guts clench, and his cock twitch. It's only slightly spoilt by the knowing smirk on Dean's face. If Sam thought being lovers was going to change Dean into a less annoying person, he was wrong. On the other hand, knowing how well Dean could use that mouth makes it a damned sight easier to deal with the less amusing aspects of his brother's personality.

"Christ Sammy, from concerned nursemaid to horny in 0.3 seconds? I'm proud of you man."

Sam rolls his eyes. The temptation to just press Dean up against the car and kiss him until they're both dizzy is strong, but Dean's right. He's covered in reeking goo and as much as the idea of sliding into his brother while the adrenaline from the hunt is still buzzing in their veins hits him hard, he knows that if they go back to the motel and get cleaned up they can spend the rest of the night between clean sheets.

"Fine, have it your way. But you're going to let me make sure you're ok when we get back to the room."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam rolls his eyes. He watches Dean as his brother walks around the car, and stretches out his hand, trailing his fingers lightly over the paintwork. He holds his breath, aroused at the sensual way Dean touches the car, and hopeful. Dean turns slightly towards Sam, and holds the hand that isn't on the car out. For a brief second, he thinks Dean wants him to take his hand, but then he realizes that Dean's asking for the keys. A surge of relief and happiness rushes through Sam and he feels almost giddy. He'd almost given up hope of Dean ever wanting to drive this car.

He puts the keys in Dean's hand, but closes his own over the keys and Dean's fingers, and pulls his brother in for a kiss. He doesn't care that Dean's covered in slime, but he's mindful of the fact that Dean's hurt when he steps closer. It's tempting to go with his earlier thought of pressing Dean into the back seat again, but he really does want to make sure Dean's alright. He pulls back and grins at Dean.

Dean clears his throat, opens his eyes and grins back at Sam. He steps back and Dean nods, then opens the driver's doors and slides in. Sam walks around the car and climbs in the passenger side. He watches as Dean caresses the wheel, then starts the engine, puts the car in drive, and pulls away as if everything were right with the world. Sam just hopes he's right.

****

By the time they reach the motel, Sam's given in to temptation, and his hand is resting on Dean's thigh, fingers stroking up and down the inside seam. He can feel the muscles in Dean's leg flex under his hand, and it makes his mouth dry and his cock twitch.

He has to force himself to walk, not run back to their room and he's all too aware of Dean following him. But he forgets all the fantasies when he opens the door and some sixth sense tells him that there's someone already inside. He draws a gun and knows that Dean's doing the same, then he throws the door open and he and Dean burst into the room, only to stop in surprise when they both realize who the intruder is.

He hears the same surprise and fear that he's feeling in Dean's voice.

"Dad...?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Dean. Sam."

The sight of Dad is like ice water down his spine. He's just standing there, in the middle of the room, between the two single beds, like the last few weeks haven't happened, like everything is the same as it was before he left, the second time, before he walked away from his sons and left Sam to try and gather up the broken pieces of his brother.

Sam's lust is forgotten in the initial shock, then drowned in the anger that follows hard on the heels of his surprise. He's standing close enough to Dean feel the faint tremors that are shaking his brother's body. There's no way to tell which emotion is making Dean shiver so; anger, relief, fear, or all three of them. The knowledge that it's probably fear is about the only thing stopping Sam from telling Dad that he doesn't have the right to just waltz in and out of their lives as he sees fit, or send them off on hunts that almost get them killed. But Sam can't complain about that, because the hunt going wrong gave him Dean; brother, friend, lover, and he can't regret that.

The surge of protectiveness is just as strong as the anger, because Sam _knows_ that Dean's worried, if not down right terrified, about what Dad will do if he finds out they're lovers. Dean's never said so, but Sam knows his brother. He knows too that if Dad finds out, he's going to blame Dean, and Dean's going to accept that blame. Sam's determined he's not going to let either of them do that this time. He's every bit as much to blame as Dean, maybe more so because Dean was shattered and utterly stricken when Sam pressed him down onto the back seat of the car; broken and vulnerable and so goddamned relieved to see Sam alive he'd have given him anything he wanted. All Sam had wanted was Dean and he still has no idea why he never realized that simple fact before the moment he sank into his brother's willing body. If there's blame here, it's Sam that should take it; if there's sin, it's surely more Sam's than Dean's. But what they've done doesn't feel like sin, though it should. It feels right and Sam's not giving him up. Not for anything, not even Dad. He made the mistake of walking away from Dean once, of letting his brother think he didn't care; he's not going to do it again.

He lets his hand brush against Dean's; a simple, innocently accidental touch, but Dean's trembling seems to subside a little. Sam doesn't want to leave his brother's side, but there's no point making Dad angry or suspicious, so he walks across the room, fighting the urge to look back at Dean; to try and reassure him that it's ok, that they're in this together. Dad opens his arms, and Sam steps into the hug. It's awkward, but despite his anger, Sam can't help the relief at knowing Dad's ok. They stand like that for a long moment, then Dad slaps him on the back, and pulls away. Sam steps away, a pace or two behind Dad's right shoulder. He watches Dean move into John's embrace, and when Dean's eyes find his over Dad's shoulder, Sam tries to put as much reassurance as he can into the gaze they share. Dean looks so nervous, so unsure, so damned _scared_ that Sam aches to be the one holding him. It hurts to see something they've done leave Dean so uncomfortable around a man he idolizes, and for a moment Sam feels the first flash of guilt. But it's drowned in the memories of touching Dean, of being able to hold his brother, of the connection they've created. He can't be the one embracing Dean now, so instead he tries to smile to his brother, knowing he's only partially successful. When Dad lets Dean go, Sam moves to stand beside his brother again, not caring if Dad thinks it odd. The apparently accidental way Dean shifts as he does, his shoulder brushing Sam's arm has Sam holding in a sigh of relief.

Dad's grin turns to concern when he looks at Dean, and Sam remembers the ghoul, and the wounds that Dean wouldn't let him look at back in the graveyard. He curses to himself, wishing he'd insisted. The last thing they need is a lecture from Dad over hunting and tending to injuries.

"You ok, son? What happened?"

Dean half shrugs.

"Ghoul took a swing at me. Sammy got her before she could take a real chunk out of me though."

There are so many emotions in Dean's voice that Sam just can't separate them, and hope and love and worry and apprehension twist his stomach.

"Should have been more careful, ghouls can be dangerous things."

Sam has to bite his tongue. There's concern in Dad's voice, but also disappointment and reprimand. He knows what's coming next when Dad turns towards him.

"Why didn't you take care of your brother sooner Sammy?"

"It's _Sam_. He wouldn't let me. I thought it'd be better to save the inevitable battle until we were back here, when I could get a proper look." He knows he's talking too much, but he's been unexpectedly blindsided by the memory of kissing Dean in the graveyard, of thoughts of what he was going to do to Dean when they got back to this very room and he needs to do something to distract himself from that train of thought. If he thought Dad being around was going to dampen his desire for Dean, he was clearly wrong. This is going to be so much harder than he thought. He's glad that they got a room with two single beds, even if it was more from habit than anything else, because the last thing they need is Dad asking awkward questions right now.

"Well, you best do that then _Sam_." Sam grinds his teeth. That 'do as I tell you and do it _now_ ' tone of voice has always gotten under Sam's skin and to be told he should be taking care of Dean by the man who didn't even stick around to see his son wake from a coma is infuriating. But he swallows the harsh words down, for Dean's sake. He grabs the med kit from his bag and turns back to see Dean stripping off his t-shirt, stiff with blood and ghoul guts. Sam sucks in a breath when he sees the gouges running across Dean's chest and stomach. Fortunately they aren't deep and they don't look as though they'll need stitches, but they must sting like fuck and they're going to drive Dean mad as they start to heal.

Sam glances over at Dad and is shocked by the expression on his face. He follows Dad's eye line, and realizes that Dad's not seen the scars the demon that briefly inhabited his body had left on Dean. Sam's never seen his father look so emotionally open. It's all plain to see on Dad's face; sorrow, anger, grief, pain. Sam's own anger drains away, leaving him tired. He doesn't want to fight with his father anymore. Dad's just as fucked up as they are, and arguing is going to get them nowhere. All they'll do is hurt Dean, again. Sam’s exhausted, and he just wants to be alone with Dean, to patch his brother up and then fall asleep in his arms.

Dean drops to sit on one of the beds like his legs can barely hold him up. He slumps down, shoulders hunched, chin almost touching his chest, hands hanging loosely between his legs. It's a physical _ache_ to see Dean like this. They've come so far and despite everything, Sam's suddenly terrified that Dad being back is going to pull them apart again. Dean's a hell of a lot better than he was when they left the hospital and he's always played the stoic role far too well for Sam's liking, but Sam's all too well aware that the cracks are still there, that Dean is still fragile and vulnerable. The need to get Dad out of the room, so he can talk to Dean is overwhelming, but he clamps down on it, determined not to start an argument. He just needs to get Dean cleaned up and get Dad out of the room, as quickly as possible, before Dean retreats again behind the walls Sam's been patiently knocking down.

Sam grabs the med kit and crouches in front of Dean. He rests a hand on Dean's leg, thumb gently stroking the inside of his brother's knee. It's the only touch he dare allow himself, beyond those needed to deal with Dean's injuries. He can feel how tense Dean is, and how miserable. Sam's almost sorry that he insisted on the tattoos, the deep and permanent bond that even now he can feel between them. Almost sorry. He hates that right now Dean's hurting and scared, but the selfish part of him doesn't care. They're bound together now, stronger and deeper than any marriage, any partnership, and nothing and no-one can change that. Just that knowledge calms Sam, and he takes a breath before giving Dean's knee a gentle squeeze and reaching for the gauze and antiseptic.

****

Contrary to what Sam obviously thinks, John cares. And he knows his sons. The relationship between his boys has been many things over the years. There have been times when John has looked at the two of them, Sam and Dean, and felt like a stranger. It's been Sam and Dean, and John for more years than John can remember. The first word Sam said wasn't Mommy, as it should have been, it wasn't Daddy either, it was Dean. He knows he can blame no-one but himself for that, but that hurt. He shouldn't have been jealous of the way his boys clung to each other, of the way Dean cared for Sam, though he was barely old enough to look after himself, of the way Sam worshipped his older brother, but he was.

As Sam grew up and hit his teens, the relationship between the brothers grew more and more strained until John was certain it would snap. But it never did, and it appears that not even Sam's leaving for college, John's harsh and instantly regretted words undoubtedly ringing in his ears, could sever that link. When John went underground, abandoning Dean without a word, he never expected his eldest to go straight to Sam. He should have. He should have realized that whatever the bond between them was, not even time or distance was ever going to break it.

He's come to accept that his place in their lives is on the sidelines, that when they have each other, they don't actually _need_ him. He doesn't like it, but he's come to terms with it. It is, after all, a situation of his own making.

But watching Sam tend to Dean's wounds, he can tell something is off. There's something different about them. Individually, they seem the same, but together? It's as if something's happened, something fundamental, between them. Normally he'd chalk it up to another argument, because God knows, they've had enough over the years, but this is subtly different, and while there's definitely tension between them, it isn't the frustrated resentment he's used to sensing. He can't put a name to it yet, although he has no doubt that he'll figure it out in time. As long as it doesn't interfere when they're hunting, he'll let them work it out for themselves.

John watches as Sam carefully cleans the jagged tears across Dean's chest. There's a tenderness in the way Sam touches his brother that John doesn't remember seeing before, and as much as it makes his heart clench for all that he's lost, he's pleased to see it between his sons.

Sam moves, and John catches sight of the older scars, the ones obviously left by the demon that are still pale against the tan skin around them, and John’s smothered again by the weight of his shame and regret. He should have been stronger, should have fought the demon harder. The sound of Dean's voice, _begging_ John to fight, to not let him die haunts John's nightmares. Some nights he can't sleep because his thoughts are filled with memory of bright red blood on his son's lips, and Sam's voice, agonized and terrified, calling for his brother. There are times when John honestly wishes Sam had pulled the trigger, so he wouldn't have to live with the guilt of knowing he was weak, that he didn't fight the demon enough, that it was wearing his form when it inflicted those wounds on Dean.

Leaving the hospital before Dean woke is not something he's proud of, but he couldn't bear to stay and risk seeing disappointment, or worse, fear, in his son's eyes. John understands Sam's anger, hell, he's angry with himself, but he needed to get away, to get his head straight. He knew Sam would take care of his brother, and Dean's strong, a fighter.

He's not sure he'd be back now, if it weren't for his telephone conversation with Dean. He's never heard his son sound so despairing, so vulnerable. Dean hasn't shown that kind of weakness for years, not in front of John. Not since he learnt to be exactly what his father wanted; the obedient soldier, who never displayed any frailty. Sometimes he hated what he had done to his sons, especially to Dean. It _hurt_ to watch his son change from a happy, out-going child without a care in the world to a young man who gave every appearance of being gregarious, if shallow. John knew it was a lie. The open, affectionate child was slowly locked away from the world behind fortifications his own father forced him to build.

He knows that Sam thinks it was all about his obsession with hunting the demon, with taking out his grief and anger at every evil thing he could find, and in truth, that was a large part of it. But that wasn't the whole of it. When the grief and the anger finally dimmed to a dull ache that's when the fear took hold. Fear for his sons. Sam's wrong. His obsession wasn't hunting, his obsession was making sure his children could defend themselves, making sure they knew what hid in the shadows. The thought of losing them too was more than he could bear to consider and he knows it made him tougher, stricter, less of a father and more of a taskmaster, and he regrets it, but he was driven by a terror that John can admit to himself he didn't know how to deal with.

The sharp bite of remorse has him blinking back stinging tears. He focuses on his sons again, realizing that while he's been lost in thought Sam's cleaned Dean's wounds and wrapped his chest in clean bandages. Sam's standing over Dean, almost curled over his brother as he secures the gauze. He says something to Dean, voice too soft for John to make out the words, but he catches the tone; soft and affectionate. The tears are back, and he can taste the salt in the back of his throat. In trying to keep them safe, he's denied them so much, but at least they've always had each other. He knows it's going to seem like he's running once more, but he needs some time. Seeing the boys again has unsettled him more than he expected. He's hit by a wave of exhaustion.

"Sam, you done?"

Sam turns to face him, his hand resting on Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah."

John looks at Dean, and the defeated posture of his eldest child causes a physical ache. This isn't the Dean he knows. This Dean is hurting and while John can deal with any physical injury, he has no idea how to handle this emotional distress; he just doesn't know how to help him.

"Dean."

"Yessir." Dear God, should that hurt so? That Dean automatically calls him sir, not Dad. John knows that he's reaping the results of his own actions and that's a bitter, bitter pill to swallow.

"You rest now, ok? I want both of you to get some rest. I've got a room down the hall and I think we could all do with sleep." He half expects Sam to protest, because that seems to be the way of it. John gives them instructions and Sam rebels. But this time Sam just nods, once, hand still resting on his brother's shoulder.

He looks at Dean, willing his son to look up, but utterly terrified of what he'll see if he does. It's both a relief and a disappointment when Dean nods without raising his head.

John leaves the small room, walking slowly down the hall to the room he took earlier that day. He shuts the door behind him, stepping over the salt line just inside the door. He feels older than his years; old and very, very alone. He kicks his boots off, then drops to the bed, suddenly too exhausted to even bother undressing, welcoming sleep, haunted though it is.

****

Dean can taste the sharp tang of fear and guilt, bitter like the bile at the back of his throat. There's no remorse; he can't regret what they've done, but he still can't shake the nagging feeling that somehow he's betrayed some bone deep trust, despite the fact that Sam is old enough to make his own choices, and Dad's never really trusted either of them, though God knows, he's asked for it in return often enough.

The bitterness that that thought provokes is a shock, though he knows it's always been there, hidden beneath his desperate need to keep the three of them together, to keep them safe.

Christ, now he's starting to sound like Sammy and his psych 101 bullshit.

Sam's hand is warm on his shoulder, fingertips stroking the scarred skin so gently that Dean suspects his brother isn't even aware he's doing it. Dean wants to lean into the touch, wants to pull Sam down onto the bed so he can cling to him and pretend that they're back in a world where only the two of them exist. But the thought of Dad, just a few doors away is enough to stop him reaching for Sam.

He never thought that he'd resent Dad coming back, even if he resented him going away in the first place, but that's a large part of what he's feeling now. Resentment at the way Dad's said nothing about why he left, nothing about why he's back, nothing at all, in fact. As if they aren't deserving of an explanation. But then, they never have been, as far as Dad's concerned. Part of him is horrified at his own thoughts, at the disloyalty. Another part feels as though he's just been set free from jail, as though he's seeing sunlight for the first time in _years_. It's scary and liberating and he doesn't know if the sudden tightness in his chest is relief or terror.

It's like a punch to the gut to realize how his whole world has been turned upside down since he woke up. But then his whole world consisted of Sam, Dad and hunting, and in one night, one single act, everything in that world has changed, though he no longer knows which night that was; the night Mom died, the night he went looking for Sam at Stanford, the night the demon possessed Dad, or the night he thought he'd lost Sam, only to end up pinned to the backseat of the car beneath his brother, terrified, grief-stricken, relieved and unaccountably aroused.

"Dean?"

Sam's hand slides from Dean's shoulder to curl carefully around his jaw, but Dean resists his brother's attempt to get him to look up. He can't escape when Sam crouches in front of him, one hand still resting on Dean's neck, the other on Dean's knee, tilting Dean's head back until he has no choice but to meet Sam's eyes.

For a moment, Dean's sure that Sam's going to say something and he's equally certain that whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it, not right now. Then Sam sighs, softly and his fingers stroke the back of Dean's neck and his thumb rubs the inside of Dean's knee. He straightens up, and before Dean can pull away, Sam's leaning in, kissing him carefully, as if he were something fragile.

Sam pulls back and rests his forehead against Dean's and Dean can't help but rest a hand on Sam's shoulder and let the warmth and the affection he can feel in his brother's touch soothe him. He doesn't know if it's something that's grown out of the new side to their relationship, or the bond, or something else, but there's a comfort in having Sam close that he's never felt before and nothing and no-one is going to get in the way of that. Not even Dad. Because if Dean has to choose, he's going to choose Sam.

XXXX

 

There were so many things Sam had wanted to say to Dean last night. _I'm sorry_ , _I'm not sorry_ , _I'm not giving you up_ , _I don't regret this_. But he didn't say any of them. Instead he gently undressed them both and pulled Dean down into bed. Dean didn't say anything either, not that Sam really expected him to, but he went willingly into bed and Sam's arms.

Neither of them slept well and what rest they did get was fitful and broken. Sometime not long after dawn Sam wakes. He knows immediately that Dean's awake too. When they're close and quiet like this, in a way they never can be during the day, he can feel Dean most strongly through their bond. It's nothing specific, just vague impressions of Dean's emotions and a general sense of _Dean_. Usually it's comforting and soothing and a side of Dean he never normally gets to see; the man behind all the bravado and the barely concealed pain and the walls and defenses.

This morning he can barely feel anything from Dean and the little that is filtering through is tense and uneasy. He's not really surprised, but it doesn't stop the flicker of hurt and the fear that Dean's already retreating, pulling away from him. He doesn't know whether it's fear of Dad finding out what they've been doing, or fear that somehow Dad being back is going to tear them apart, but he knows Dean well enough now to know that his brother is afraid of something.

When the answer hits him, a second or so later, Sam wonders how he didn't see it straight away. All Dean has ever had is his family, Sam and Dad, and his very real fear is that somehow what they've done is going to destroy that and lead to the thing Dean fears more than anything else; being alone. Sam _knows_ that before he finally got to see his brother, stripped of all his walls and Sam's own childish perceptions, it would have been a valid fear. Towards the end, before he left for college, and after, when he came so reluctantly back, he and Dad could barely manage to spend more than five minutes in the same room without arguing. Dean thinks this is going to be the same and that he's going to be forced to chose and when he can't, or if he makes the wrong choice, he's going to lose everything.

Sam turns onto his side, so he's facing Dean.

"I'm not going to leave."

"I know." Dean's admission leaves Sam stunned. Dean sighs "I know you're not thinking of leaving Sam, but it isn't that simple."

"What? I mean..." Sam has always hated the way Dean can turn his world upside down and inside out so casually. _"I know you're not thinking of leaving..."_. As if the thought had never entered his head until Sam mentioned it. He doesn't know whether to shout for joy that he's finally got the message through Dean's thick skull, kiss his brother, or slap him for taking the 'annoying big brother' routine too far.

"Sam, I'm not completely stupid. I might not be the psychic side-show in this family, but even I can figure things out."

"Oh. So the problem is what, exactly?"

"Dad's back, and that changes everything."

"It doesn't have to." He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it.

"Yes, it does. How can it not, Sam? You think we can hide this?"

"We can try."

"From Dad? You honestly think he's not going to notice anything's wrong?"

"It's not wrong, Dean."

"I doubt Dad'll see it that way. And I can't see him being too happy when he figures out that his sons are fucking each other."

"I don't care."

He knows the minute the words leave his mouth that he's said the wrong thing. He can feel the tension in his brother's body increase and he can sense the uncertainty, the anger.

"Obviously. It's not you that Dad's going to blame is it? What the hell do you think Dad's going to do when he finds out Sam?" Sam knows exactly what Dad'll do. He'll blame Dean. Not because it's Dean's fault, necessarily, but simply because Dean's older and he's supposed to the responsible one. "Hell, I'll be lucky if he doesn't shoot me on the spot."

"Dean..."

"Even if he doesn't, what then? I can't see him sticking around to play happy families, knowing that we're knocking boots."

Sam has no answer for that. He can't go back to just being brothers, even if he wanted to, and Dean's right, Dad's going to realize and then there's going to be hell to pay, and no matter what Sam does, he can't see a way out of this that isn't going to hurt all of them, but Dean most of all. The euphoria of a few minutes ago drains away.

"I don't... We can't go back."

Dean sighs, resigned and weary. "No, we can't."

"Would you want to?" He knows it's a stupid question, but Dean isn't the only one who needs reassurance now and again.

"No, I wouldn't. God help us both when Dad finds out, but I don't want go back to the way things were."

"What are we going to do then?"

"I have no idea Sammy. We're just going to have to be careful and hope like hell we all survive."

"We will." He can tell Dean isn't convinced, but he doesn't argue.

"Come on, we should be getting up, Dad'll probably be here soon."

Sam doesn't want to get up. He'd much rather stay here in bed and wrap himself around his brother, but the last thing they want is for Dad to find them like this, so he doesn't say anything when Dean gets up and heads for the bathroom. He stares at the cracked ceiling, and tries not to think about what'll happen when Dad finds out.

****

When dawn rolls around, John's already awake. He's managed to grab about two hours sleep, and the rest of the time he's spent staring blankly at the stained and cracked ceiling, trying very hard not to think. It's pure habit that has him rising from the lumpy bed and showering, shaving and dressing. He learnt a long time ago that the only way to last the long haul is to think as little as possible.

He walks down the dingy corridor, and knocks, using the code he taught his sons before they were old enough to read.

Dean answers, shirtless and barefoot, and it's on the tip of John's tongue to reprimand him for opening the door unarmed, even with the right code. Dean turns, and John catches sight of the gun at his side, and he bites back the harsh words, feeling the faintest hint of pride instead. Dean's still subdued, and he merely nods before turning away and walking towards the bed, tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. The motion draws John eyes to the low slung jeans that his fingers itch with a parental need to pull up. The sight of the dark lines of the tattoo make him forget all about what his son's wearing. He _knows_ Dean didn't have it before he dragged Sam from Stanford, and he's fairly sure he didn't have it the last time John saw him, pale and terrifying frail against starched white sheets in the hospital. He sees enough before the gun hides it from view to know that the tattoo is runic, and that it's protection of some sort. There's a flash of anger at Dean's recklessness, messing with old, powerful magic like that. But he can't deny that with the lives they lead, they need all the protection they can get. He lets it go for now, but mentally he makes a note to let Dean know he's not happy.

As Dean dresses, John slumps into the hard plastic chair by the pitted and stained formica table. He's beyond tired and he can feel every single one of his years, and then some. Watching as his son moves around the room, hunting for socks, and pulling on his boots is so familiar, so soothing that for a moment, he feels almost calm. He leans his head back against the wall, and he can't stop his eyes from closing. He can still hear Dean, and it takes a few seconds before he realizes that it's unusually quiet. He's used to Dean humming under his breath, clicking his fingers, or tapping his feet to some beat only he can hear. This morning though, Dean's silent. It's a small thing, but John's starting to get the sense that it's a symptom of something more serious. Ever since last night, he's had the impression that something is out of kilter between his sons and whatever it is, it doesn't look as though they've resolved it.

Before he gets a chance to say anything, Sam emerges from the bathroom, running late as always because Dean always gets to the bathroom first and whatever he does in there takes forever. John feels that sense of being an outsider again, because everything seems so commonplace, and yet it's wrong. Sam doesn't see John at first, and when he does, he falters slightly, almost imperceptibly. John would have missed it if he hadn't been watching. What the hell is going on here?

When Sam turns to grab his bag and dress, John is left speechless. Seems Dean isn't the only one to be sporting a new tattoo. Runes again, between Sam's shoulder blades. John gets a good look this time and he can tell that the runes are indeed all related to protection, healing and positive energy. There are other runes that he's not so familiar with, but he's sure that they relate to bonds and kinship.

Both his sons are wearing what appear to be identical, indelible marks and John has absolutely no idea what it means.

He watches them as they move around the room and each other, Dean checking and readying weapons, and Sam dressing. The seemingly constant chatter of their childhood, and the usual banter of their teenage years is absent although at least the strained tension of their early adult years has vanished. Now there's just this odd rapport that he can't get a handle on. He can't be sure if that's down to his presence, or whatever the hell has gone on between them. They've always worked well together, but now, watching them, it's as if something has finally clicked into place. It's almost as if they don't need words anymore. As he observes them, he notices that while Dean barely looks at his brother, Sam can't seem to take his eyes off Dean. It's not obvious, it's not as though he stares, but his eyes are constantly darting towards Dean, following his brother around the room, as if he daren't let him out of his sight.

John knows that Sam's been worried about Dean and if it wasn't for the tattoos, he'd probably just assume it was nothing more than that. But he keeps coming back to the tattoos, to the fact that both his sons are well aware of the seriousness of wearing marks like that. Which leaves John with the realization that _something_ has happened, something that's changed their relationship in a fundamental way. It doesn't seem to have a detrimental effect, and he guesses he should be happy to leave it at that, but he can't help feeling that he's missing something important, something he should be seeing but isn't.

He's not been the best of fathers, he knows that, but they're his sons, and though he might not always have shown it, he loves them. Whatever has happened to them, whatever has lead them to where they are now, he wants to understand it, wants to reassure himself that they are ok. And if he's honest, he wants to understand them, to find some way of being a part of their lives again. He's used to being alone, but being lonely, that he finds harder to handle. It's part of the reason he came back the first time, and selfish as it is, part of the reason he came back this time. For now though he has a job for them.

****

A short while later, over breakfast, he lays out the details of the job. A relatively run-of-the-mill haunted house, save for the half dozen or so mysterious disappearances over the last 20 years. It should be a simple hunt, something to ease them back into the habit of working together. Dean is unusually quiet still, asking only a couple of questions. Sam doesn't look happy, his face getting that pinched look John became all too familiar with in the months before Sam left for college. But he doesn't say anything for once and John's glad. The last thing he wants is another row, another reason for Sam to push him away. When he's done, he waits for a response. Sam looks at Dean. There's a long few seconds where they just stare at each other and watching them the hair on the back of John's neck stands up.

There's an intensity in that look, layers of meaning that he can't sift through before they're looking away from each other and Sam nods, looking unhappy but resigned. Dean leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the bench seat that he and Sam are sitting on. Sam sighs and as the waitress arrives to clear away their dirty plates, he leans back too, slouching down in the seat and letting his head drop back onto Dean's arm. John hides a grin, waiting for Dean to smack his brother and tell him to move. But the reaction doesn't come and he's struck again by that sense that something is different between the boys. It's like the answer is there, right in front of him, but he just can't quite grasp it. He orders another cup of coffee and heads for the men’s room, just to buy some more time to figure it out.

He watches from across the room as the waitress leans over to fill up their coffee cups, making sure Dean gets a flash of her fairly impressive cleavage. Sam scowls and refuses coffee, while Dean grins at her, although John can tell there's no real interest behind the look and God knows he's seen Dean in action often enough to be able to tell. The waitress hovers for a second, then leaves, casting more than one backward glance in Dean's direction. John watches her leave, then turns back to the boys in time to catch Sam turning his head to say something to Dean. It's nothing specific, but there's something about the way Dean leans in to hear what Sam's saying; the way Sam turns his whole body to face his brother; the way Dean's hand shifts slightly to rest on Sam's shoulder, then slides up, fingers curling around Sam's neck, gently and absentmindedly stroking; the way Sam's face loses the frown and seems to light up when Dean laughs softly and shakes his head

That's when it finally hits John like a fucking freight train. The strange atmosphere, the tension between his sons, the way Dean could hardly bear to meet his eyes, the tattoos. Every damned thing. Dear Lord, it's not possible, they can't have, they _wouldn't_ have done that, surely? But it's impossible to stand here, watching them, seeing how close they are, how they act now that they think they can't be seen and not think that his sons have broken that ultimate taboo. Their body language just screams intimacy. The kind of intimacy that only exists between lovers. He wants to laugh, wants to dismiss this as a stupid idea, but he's spent too many years relying on his intuition to just ignore this, however much he wants to.

It's a complete shock, and John has no idea what the hell to do about it. He can't bring himself to even _think_ about the things his sons might be doing to, with, each other. How could he not have seen this coming? Could he have missed the signs? Was there something he could have done to stop this? When the hell did this start? Endless questions that he doesn't have any answers for. It's not the fact that they're both men because he couldn't care less about their sexual preferences, although he can't deny it's a surprise, but they're _brothers_ , for the love of God. This is so wrong, so far outside of John's understanding that he has no idea how to handle it.

He slips into the men’s room and stares at his own reflection. His shock and horror is plain on his face. He feels queasy and he would give anything to be able to tell himself that he's wrong, that there's another explanation for everything he's seen. But if there is another way to explain this, he's damned if he can see it. He splashes his face with cold water, trying to wrestle back some control over himself, over his emotions. This is too serious, too important to rush into. He needs to be absolutely sure that he's right. He needs time to think about how to deal with this. He raises his head and though his shock still shows in his eyes, his expression is more normal now. He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. They still have a job to do and right now, focusing on a hunt will help him take his mind off of... _this_ , at least until he's figured out what the hell he's going to do about it.

Walking back out and facing his sons is not the hardest thing John's ever done, but it's definitely on the short list. It takes every skill he's ever learnt to slide back into his seat and not let his turmoil show. Sam and Dean aren't touching now, there's a careful distance between them, as if nothing's wrong. Now it's his turn to avoid catching their eyes and he can see the faint frown on Dean's face. He forgets sometimes that as well as he knows his sons, Dean knows him almost as well. It's all too easy to slip back into the old routine and he knows that his confusion makes him unnecessarily gruff when he tells them that they're leaving and heading straight for the hunt.

When they're all packed and ready, he takes his truck, leaving Dean and Sam to follow in the new Impala. They could have taken one car, but John needs space. He can't handle being around them right now, not without doing something he's certain he'll regret later. He tries to focus on the hunt, but his mind won't stop replaying the scene in the diner. It's wrong, but even he can't deny the tenderness and affection between the boys and it's that he keeps turning over and over in his head, trying to reconcile the fact that he knows what they're doing is _wrong_ , and the obvious _love_ he can see between them. He needs to resolve it though, before it eats him alive, before it tears them all apart.

XXXX

They spend the morning checking out the house, and it's a relief to be able to throw himself into the job, to focus solely on the hunt. For a few hours he can push the unwanted knowledge to the back of his mind.

Once they've got the lie of the land and they've gone over and over the plan until he's satisfied that they all know what they're doing, he tells them that they need to be back here before dusk. The boys share another look and John has to repress a shiver. He can tell that they want time alone and he forces his mind not to think about why. But he has no reason to insist that they spend the day together and in truth, as awful as the thought of his boys together in that way is, leaving them alone is sill going to be easier than trying to pretend that everything is fine. All John wants is to go back to his room and drink until he can't think of anything any more, but he knows he can't. When this is over though, he fully intends to get up close and personal with a bottle of whatever he can get his hands on.

Instead he watches the boys climb into the new car and drive away. And tries to pretend that it doesn't feel as though his world is falling apart for the second time.

****

Sam's relieved when they leave Dad. He knows he ought to feel bad, but it's been such a strain, trying to act naturally, trying to pretend that nothing has changed. It's a relief to get back to the motel, to the privacy of their room.

He ends up sitting at the table, laptop open but ignored, watching Dean clean and prep the guns. It's so familiar and yet now it's also somehow perversely erotic. Dean's fingers are slick and shiny with gun oil and Sam can smell it from where he's sitting. He can't help but remember the first time they made love, in the back of the car. He's certain that he's never going to be able to smell gun oil again without remembering.

A shiver of desire down his spine has him shifting on the hard plastic chair. Dean looks up and Sam can tell the exact moment that Dean realizes the direction of Sam's thoughts. The way his brother's pupils dilate so suddenly has Sam's stomach knotting with lust. Whether it's from the still forbidden nature of that lust, or because Dean can clearly read him well enough to pick up on Sam's arousal, he doesn't know and he doesn't care.

He crosses the room, until he's kneeling on the end of the bed. Dean puts down the gun he was cleaning and just watches Sam. Sam reaches out and takes one of Dean's hands in his own, letting his fingers curl around Dean’s, sliding over slick skin. He watches Dean swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He tugs on Dean's hand, until his brother is leaning forward enough for Sam to curl his other hand in Dean's hair and tip his head back far enough that Sam can lick a long slow stripe from the base of Dean's throat all the way up to his chin. He feels the shiver that runs through Dean and it gives him the courage to press his lips against Dean's ear.

"You know, I don't think I'll ever be able to smell gun oil again without getting hard. Do you have any idea how hot it is to watch you cleaning the guns?"

Dean shudders this time, harder than before and he exhales a quiet sigh. Sam pulls back in time to watch his brother lick his lips and Sam just _has_ to kiss him, practically climbing into Dean's lap, biting and licking at Dean's lips as his brother slides oil slick hands under Sam's t-shirt, the contrast between the sleek feel of the oil and the gentle scrape of calluses making Sam arch and hiss. No matter how many times they've done this, it's still so _damned_ good.

Sam uses his weight and position to press Dean down, until he's lying across the bed, one leg wrapping around Sam's hip, giving Dean the leverage to arch up, one hand sliding down to cup Sam's ass and pull him even closer. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this, and all the pretending, all the strain of having Dad back is worth it for this, to have this connection with his brother.

He manages to drag himself away long enough for them both to strip, then Dean's pressing against him, crowding him until Sam's sitting with his back to the headboard and Dean’s in his lap, spilling gun oil over the bed as well as Sam's fingers. The way Dean's body _ripples_ as Sam slides his slick fingers carefully into his brother is breathtaking. Dean arches, head tipped back, and Sam can't resist licking his throat again, letting his teeth scrape over the tender skin. When they're together like this, right and wrong don't seem to matter anymore.

"Enough." Dean's voice is breathless, rough with lust and need and Sam doesn't need telling twice.

Watching Dean position himself, seeing every expression that flits across his face, the way he bites his lip as he sinks slowly down is quite probably the hottest thing Sam's ever seen. The urge to just drag his brother down and fuck him as hard as he can is almost unbearable. He lets Dean set the pace at first, but the sight of Dean riding his cock, the breathy moans that spill from his brother’s mouth, despite the way Dean’s biting his lower lip is too much. He wraps his hands around Dean’s hips and drives up, as deep as he can, over and over until they’re both sweating and panting and Sam can’t think of anything beyond the fact that there is nothing in the world that could make him give this up now.

Dean finally breaks, wrapping his hand around his own cock and descending into low, desperate moans. It’s far too much, far too hot for Sam and he drives up, hands pulling Dean down, pressing as far inside his brother’s body as he can go, certain he must be hurting Dean, and utterly unable to stop. Aftershocks are still rippling through him when Dean freezes above him and orgasms with a groan, sending a wave of pleasure through the bond that has Sam gasping and shivering all over again.

Sam’s vaguely aware of Dean shifting carefully off of him and collapsing beside him onto the bed. He can’t even contemplate moving yet, let alone thinking. Sooner or later they're going to have to leave the sanctuary of their room and face not only Dad but another hunt, but for now, Sam's content where he is.

Eventually, the need to eat drives Sam to shower and dress. He leaves Dean showering, the temptation to join him is almost enough to make him forgo the late lunch, but he knows they need to eat. When he gets back, Dean is sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but a towel and _damn_ , but Sam wishes Dad wasn't here, that they didn't have a hunt tonight. From the smirk on Dean's face, he's well aware of the reaction he provokes in Sam. It would be really infuriating, if it weren't so arousing.

They spend the rest of the day channel surfing and swapping lazy kisses. But as the afternoon edges towards evening, Sam can sense the tension growing in both of them. It leaves an almost physical ache in his chest to see the way Dean retreats back behind those walls of his. He knows it's necessary to keep Dad from finding out, but he hates it, nevertheless.

The drive back to the haunted house is silent and the atmosphere in the car is fraught with nerves and apprehension. Dad's already there, and Sam can see the tension in their father's posture even before they get out of the car. For a second he feels like a kid again, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He tries to convince himself that it's only his imagination, but he can't help the spike of fear that Dad somehow _knows_. He doesn't need to look at Dean to know that his brother thinks the same thing.

The sense of foreboding isn't helped when Dad doesn't quite look at them and merely jerks his head towards the house in lieu of any greeting. When he looks at Dean, his brother doesn't meet his gaze either. A cold chill settles in Sam's stomach and he has to struggle to focus on the hunt. Now is not the time to be distracted.

When they enter the house, they spread out, just the way Dad planned and Sam finds himself slipping back into the old routines as if Dad had never left. They sweep through the ground floor without finding anything except dust and cobwebs. Sam rejoins his father and brother in the main hallway.

"Dean, check the basement. Sam, we'll check the first floor."

Sam looks at Dean, tempted to refuse, unhappy with the idea of Dean checking the basement on his own, but Dean shakes his head. Dad gives him a sharp look and it's all Sam can do to hold his tongue at the way Dean's head drops and his shoulders hunch in an all too familiar defensive posture.

"Meet us upstairs when you're done." Dean nods and heads down to the basement without a word. Sam watches him go, then follows his father upstairs.

He manages to make it through the first couple of rooms before the need to say something gets the better of him.

"You shouldn't have sent Dean off on his own."

Dad glares at him. "He'll be fine on his own."

"And you know that for sure?"

"Your brother is quite capable of taking care of himself." There's just a hint of _something_ in Dad's voice that makes Sam very uneasy.

"Yeah, I know. That's not the point."

Dad stops in the middle of one of the rooms and turns to face Sam.

"No, the point is what the _hell_ is going on with you and Dean?"

Cold chills run down his spine and there's an awful queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know damned well what I'm talking about. I _saw_ you in the diner. Did you really think I wouldn't notice? What the _fuck_ were you thinking Sam? Letting your brother..." Dad looks caught somewhere between pained and sickened.

"Don't. Don't you _dare_ blame Dean for this."

"Sam..."

"No. We're not kids anymore Dad, hell, we never were. You can't blame Dean for this. If you have to blame someone, blame me."

"How the hell can you just stand there and say that? Damnit this isn't right Sam. It's not..."

Sam watches his father bite back the words. Not that it matters, because he knows exactly what Dad was going to say.

"Not what, Dad? Not normal?"

"Sam, it's not _right_. Other people..."

"We're not other people though, are we? We're certainly not 'normal'. God knows, you've told us that often enough."

"That isn't what I meant Sam, and you know it. This is just... _wrong_."

Anger and the faintest hint of betrayal bubble just under his skin, prickling and burning. He'd not really expected any other reaction, but he can't deny that he'd hoped that if anyone might understand that normal and right have never had much of a place in their lives it would be Dad.

"I don't care if it's not normal, and I don't care about _other_ people. It doesn't feel wrong, Dad."

"Sammy, I can't, I won't condone _this_."

"I'm not asking you to. Honestly, I don't need your approval. I couldn't care less how you feel about it. You can ignore it, pretend it doesn't exist, whatever the hell you like, but don't you dare take off again like you did last time."

"Watch your mouth, boy." Dad's voice has dropped to a growl, but that tactic hasn't worked since Sam was thirteen years old, and now it just irritates him.

"No. You don't get to hurt Dean like that again. Not this time. You damn well put him first for once and you stick around. Because I'm telling you now, if you walk out again, you don't get to come back."

"Don't take that attitude with me, Sam, I'm not..."

"Not what? Not in the wrong? No, you never are. Even though you walked out of the hospital while your oldest son was still in a coma. But you're not the one with the attitude problem."

"Damnit Sam. I had no choice, you _know_ that..."

"Don't, ok? Just don't. I don't want to hear that you had no choice, that you were doing it to keep us safe. You had a choice. You could have stayed."

The shine of tears in Dad's eyes is completely unexpected and it throws Sam off balance.

"And you think I don't regret that choice? But damnit Sam, after the cabin, after what the demon did to Dean, I just... I wanted you boys safe, and I wasn't sure me being there was such a good idea."

He's never seen Dad so open, so vulnerable, and his anger drains in the face of his father's obvious distress. He's never doubted that Dad loved them, in his own way, but he's never seen such a blatant display of it before.

"Dad, I get it, but all we've ever done is leave Dean. Mom, me, you. Don't do it again, not without a word, please."

"What can I say to him? What can I say to either of you? I can't just ignore this, not this, Sam."

"And you're not going to try, right? Damn everyone else. Same as always. Same selfishness." The anger rushes right back, making his head spin, and raising his voice.

"Is this a private argument, or can anyone join in?” Sam turns to see his brother standing in the doorway, and the hurt in his voice and his eyes is all too obvious “On second thoughts, I won’t bother, I think I know how this one ends."

"Dean..." In any other situation, the fact that he and Dad both say Dean's name at the same time would be amusing. Right now, with Dean radiating anger and resentment, it's anything but.

"Forget it, ok? I'm sick of the fact that you two can't spend five minutes in the same room without it turning into a pissing contest, even on a hunt. It's getting really, really old. Oh yeah, and did I mention that we're on a _hunt_?"

"Dean, I'm sorry." He takes a step towards his brother, wanting, _needing_ to soothe the anger and the pain he can feel like it was his own. The sense of futility that seeps through is weary and resigned and he realizes again just how little he really understood his brother.

"Don't." It's unbearably ironic that Dean is echoing Sam's earlier words. His brother's voice is all brittle edges and jagged misery. "I don't want to know. Just save it for later, then I'll happily leave you to kick seven kinds of shit out of each other. Just don't expect me to stick around to referee this time."

Dean sounds so tired, so despondent that Sam moves forward without thinking. His hand falls onto Dean's shoulder. It's an entirely innocent gesture and all Sam wants to do is reassure his brother, apologize, anything to erase the bleak look on Dean's face, but there's a choked noise from behind him. Dean's eyes shift, looking over Sam's shoulder towards Dad. For a moment Dean's expression is confused, then, as Sam watches, he sees the realization dawn on his brother.

Dean's gaze flicks back to Sam, and even without the bond, Sam would have been able to read every emotion churning in his brother's eyes. With the bond it's like being hit in the face with a brick, and he feels sick at the guilt, shame, betrayal and fear Dean feels. Underneath all that though, he catches the faintest hint of relief and the tiniest sense of hope. Then everything settles, and all he can feel is determination. He meets Dean's gaze and despite his concern for his brother, he can't help the entirely selfish surge of possessiveness that if Dad forces him to choose, Dean's going to choose him this time.

There aren't words for how he feels when that realization hits. He's known the truth for a while, but to actually _see_ it is nothing short of breathtaking. He doesn't think he's ever loved his brother more than he does at this moment.

When Dean raises his hand and cups Sam's cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his bottom lip, it's like time stands still. He knows how Dean loves, respects and admires Dad; hell, he practically worships the man, and he's _still_ going to choose Sam. With nothing more than a look and a touch so lightly it's barely there, he's declaring how he feels, knowing that Dad is watching. He knows in this moment that there is _nothing_ he won't give or do for his brother. He finally understands the depths of Dean's devotion, of Dean's love and it's humbling.

Dean doesn't take his eyes off Sam, but when he speaks, Sam knows he's talking to Dad. His brother doesn't move his hand, and Sam can feel the bond, strong and alive, between them.

"That's what this argument is about? This?" He strokes his thumb over Sam’s lower lip again and Sam fights back a shiver at the gentle touch.

Dad makes a harsh noise, then clears his throat.

"Yes. Goddamnit Dean..."

"Save it." Dean's voice is strangely calm and he doesn't raise his voice, but Sam would swear that he hears Dad's mouth close with an audible snap. "You can accept it and deal with it, or you can reject it and leave." Sam can feel the surge of hurt at the thought, but Dean barely pauses. "But you can't stop this and I'm not going to let you even try."

"For God's sake Dean, you're _brothers_. This is wrong. It's **sick**."

Dean's hand drops, fingertips brushing feather-light over Sam's neck. He looks as though he's been suckered punched and Sam can feel his despair.

"Worse than the monsters we hunt?" Dean's voice is a whisper and suddenly Sam's terrified, paralyzed by fear as Dean takes a step back. The hand that had been resting on Dean's shoulders clutches at nothing but air. The growing sense of horror and dread rises and he feels sick.

"No. Dean, no." But Dean's out of reach, and Sam can practically feel his brother throwing up walls as he watches.

That's when the vision hits him.

He's walking down a corridor, at the end of which he can see a heavy oak door. It's a scene straight out of one of the old Hammer Horror films Dean used to like so much. He can smell the iron tang of blood, and the sickening scent of decay, thick and cloying. The smell gets stronger, the closer to the door he gets, and he's truly terrified at what he'll find beyond it, but he can't give up. Dean's here somewhere, and Sam needs to find him more than he needs to breath. The heavy door isn't locked and it opens with a soft creak when he pushes it. The stench becomes almost tangible, rising from the bloated corpse lying in the middle of the room, making him gag until he tastes bile.

It's only once he's got himself under control and takes a second look at the body that the horror truly sets in. Though the body is bloated beyond recognition and the face is nothing but a roiling mass of fat, white maggots, the ripped jeans, the silver ring and the leather jacket are unmistakeable. Even without those things, Sam would _know_. That's when he drops to his knees and throws up, over and over until there's nothing left and his body aches with the strain, though it's nothing compared to the hollow ache in his soul.

When the vision stops, he's not at all surprised to find himself on his knees. The sensory after image is so strong that he can still taste bile and the smell of death and fear has him reaching blindly out, knowing that Dean is close by, but needing to touch, to reassure himself that his brother is alive, not a rotting corpse. His stomach heaves at the though, but he fights back the urge to throw up. All he wants is to get Dean out of this house and as far away as possible. He _knows_ that the vision was centred on this house and Dean isn't safe all the time they stay within these walls. He's damned if he's going to take the slightest chance of that vision coming true.

"Sam. Sammy. You ok? Talk to me Sam. What did you see?"

He wants to grab Dean and never let him go. He wants to kiss his brother until they can't breath. He wants them out of here, but his body won't co-operate and all he can do it tighten his grip on Dean until he's sure he must be leaving bruises. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't pull away, just wraps his arms around Sam, pulling him close until Sam's practically sitting in Dean's lap. He can feel Dean's concern and it almost drags what Sam's sure would be a hysterical laugh out of him. Dean's concerned for _him_. He buries his head between Dean's neck and shoulder and wills his body to work with him.

"Sam...?" It's a shock to realize that Dad's still here, and more so to hear the concern and uncertainty in his voice.

He raises his head from Dean's shoulder. "We need to leave. Now." He can hear the frantic, cracked tone in his own voice but he really doesn't care, so long as they go.

Dean looks at him and for a second Sam thinks he's going to start asking questions that Sam isn't sure he's ever going to be able to answer. He focuses on his brother's familiar features, trying to erase the memory of rot and decay. He can hear Dad behind him, asking questions with increasing irritation, but he pays no attention. All he can do is cling to Dean and trust his brother to understand.

When Dean nods, stands and gently pulls Sam with him, an all too familiar look of determination on his face, he worries that Dean's going to try and dump him in the car and carry on the hunt without him. Instead, Dean wraps an arm around Sam's waist, and drapes Sam's arm over his shoulders. The relief when Dean turns his head towards Dad and interrupts whatever it is Dad's saying is so strong that his legs almost buckle.

"Dad. We need to go. C'mon, help me get Sammy out of here."

"We can't abandon the hunt, we haven't found the bones yet."

"Screw the hunt. We can come back tomorrow and burn the whole damned place to the ground, but right now, we are _leaving_."

He's heard that tone of Dean's before. But he has never, ever heard Dean use it when he's talking to Dad. For a second he waits for Dad to flip, but he hears him take a deep breath and then suddenly Dad's at his side.

"I'll take Sam. You make sure there's nothing between us and the door."

Dean's surprise mirrors Sam's, but Dean just nods at Dad and lets him take Sam's weight. Dean squeezes Sam's hip quickly before sliding the arm around his waist away. It's all he can do not to reach out and grab Dean. The loss of physical contact leaves him shaking and exhausted, leaning heavily on Dad as Dean draws his gun and prepares to lead them out.


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn't like Dean's attitude, but he knows that now is not the time to call his son on it. Sam's pale and sweating, leaning heavily on his arm. Dean leads the way, alert and cautious. Sam stumbles, despite John's help, but he doesn't let John stop.

They need to stay focused, but he needs to know what Sam’s vision was.

"What did you see?"

The shudder that runs through his son's body makes John nervous, despite himself. Whatever it was it clearly wasn't good, and from the way Sam doesn't take his eyes off Dean, John reckons it must have been about Dean.

"It was...I..." Another shudder, and Sam swallows hard, as if he's fighting back the urge to puke. "I'll explain later. I just want to get out of here." The way he says it, John's suddenly not so sure he wants to know what the vision was after all.

They head down the stairs, Dean still leading, gun sweeping the wide hallway. He's halfway to the door when he slows and looks back over his shoulder, eyes looking for Sam. His eyes are concerned, though his expression is grim and determined. He meets Sam's gaze, and some of the tension seems to leave Sam. He stands a little straighter, leans on John a little less.

Dean looks back towards the door as he takes another step. He doesn't get to take a second step, because there's a sound like the building is being torn apart and a hole somehow opens up in the floor right beneath Dean's feet. John watches in shocked horror as his eldest son drops like a stone, dimly aware of Sam screaming for his brother.

Sam pulls away, and lunges for the rip, but even as he reaches it, the hole closes, leaving Sam scrambling desperately at the floorboards, nearly sobbing in frustration. John can't move, he's literally frozen in place, shocked to the core.

He finally manages to pull himself together and heads for Sam, who's slamming his fist into the unyielding floor, his vocabulary reduced to 'Dean' and 'no'.

"Sam. _SAM_. We need to get out of here and figure out what to do."

"No. We can't leave Dean here. We have to find him."

"We will. But we need to figure out what we're dealing with here. We're no good to him if we go stumbling blindly about."

Sam takes a gulp of air, then another. John watches as he stands and turns to face John. His eyes are red and he's still far too pale, but he has that stubborn set to his face that John remembers all too well.

"No. I'm not leaving without Dean."

"Sam, don't be stupid. We're not leaving Dean, we just need to regroup."

"I am not leaving. I won't abandon him in this place. I... the vision, it was about this place. About what it'll do to him if we don't find him."

"What do you mean? What will it do to him?" John has a terrible sense of foreboding.

"The vision, we were looking for Dean, here, in the house. And I, we found him...but..." Sam looks as he's going to be sick and this time John is _quite_ certain he doesn't want to know, but Sam carries on anyway. "He was dead. Decaying. There were...maggots, everywhere. God, his face..." Sam's voice is trembling and John can't blame him. Just hearing Sam describe it is horrible enough. He can't imagine what it must have been like for Sam to actually _see_ it.

He takes a breath, trying to think past the paralyzing fear that they might already be too late. He rubs a hand over his face. Whatever he might feel about what's been going on between his sons, he's damned if he's going to lose his eldest son to whatever the fuck has taken him.

"Ok. We need to search the house. We'll start in the basement."

"No. We need to go up."

"Sam, he fell through the _floor_."

"I know, but he's upstairs, I know it, I can feel him."

"You can what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"We… I had a feeling that something might happen to Dean. We got tattoos..."

"Runes." Sam looks surprised. "I saw them. I know what runes look like Sam."

"Yeah. We, well, we used them to create a bond. So I could find Dean if anything... if anything happened."

He's shocked. What they've done is permanent. He knows just how powerful those kinds of spell can be, and to have them as tattoos... dear God. He's damned well taught them enough that they must have known that. What they've done is deadly serious and John doesn't know whether that makes it better, or worse.

"Alright, well, we'll talk about _that_ later. Right now we need to find your brother. You fit to go hunting?"

"Yessir."

John takes a long, hard look at Sam. It's clear that Sam isn't anywhere near fit to be backing anyone up, but John knows how stubborn his son is and that any order to go wait in the car would be ignored. As much as he hates the thought, there's no way Sam is going to sit this one out. He can't condone what they've done, but, even though he can barely stand to admit it, even to himself, he understands. Bad enough that it's Sam's brother, worse still that he's his... He can't. He can't even think of the word in the context of his sons. He pushes everything else to the back of his mind and puts all his energy into concentrating on finding Dean.

"I'll lead, you cover our asses."

"But I know where we need to go."

"You're in no state to be leading, not when we haven't got a clue what we're dealing with." For a second he thinks Sam is going to argue, but he watches as his son bites back the words and simply nods. "Lets go."

He starts up the stairs, trying to fight the urge to rush. He's never been so scared. The thought of losing Dean is terrifying and he's honestly scared about the effect that loss would have on Sammy. He could lose both of them tonight. And if he did, what point would there be then? What reason would he have to carry on. Revenge against the demon that took Mary would be meaningless, if his sons were dead, or worse.

He transfers his gun to his other hand, and wipes the sweat away. He can't afford to let the fear get a hold, or they might as well give up now. He's never given up on a hunt and he's damned if he's going to start now.

****

Dean opens his eyes to complete black and a pounding headache. He remains still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Five minutes later he can still barely see his own hand an inch or two in front of his face. He's relieved that the knock to the head hasn't left him blind, but the almost total darkness is unnerving, and it's going to make finding his way out of wherever the hell he is that much harder. He sits up and gropes around on the floor, trying to figure out if his gun is nearby. After turning in a complete circle, he gives up. The damned thing could be within half a foot of him, but unless he got lucky, he'd never find it.

He tries to remember how he ended up here, but although he can recall finding Sam and Dad arguing again and the awful, sinking, realization that they were arguing because Dad had found out about Sam and him, and Sam's vision, everything after that is a bit of a haze. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, wincing when he finds a sore spot.

He's presumably still in the house _somewhere_ , in a room of some description he assumes, but beyond that, he's not prepared to make any further guesses. There's no sound at all, though he strains to catch something. He has no idea how big the room he's in is, where the walls are, what shape the room is or anything. He reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. He flips it open, and curses loudly when there is no response. No amount of button pressing and shaking and banging it on the floor seems to work. He pockets the phone and stands cautiously, hands held out in front of him. He shuffles forward, carefully. The last thing he needs is to fall over some random piece of furniture that he can't see and sprain or break something.

It's very unnerving and he's not sure whether he feels claustrophobic, or agoraphobic. It feels simultaneously as though walls he can't see are closing in on him and that he's all alone in a huge empty void. He wipes sweaty palms down his jeans and wishes he still had his gun.

It's nothing concrete, no sound in the unnatural silence, no movement in the stillness, nothing moving in the impenetrable blackness, but he _knows_ , with a sudden certainty that raises the hair on the back of his neck, that there's a presence in the room. His skin breaks out in goose bumps as that sense of something seems to creep closer. The smell hits him next, the sickly sweet stench of death and decay that he's all too familiar with. The reek is so strong that it makes him gag. Swallowing back the bitter bite of bile, he backs slowly away from the direction he thinks the _thing_ , whatever it is, is, one hand reaching out behind his back, one in front of him, wanting to find a wall; to get his back against something.

His foot catches on something and before he can steady himself, he overbalances and lands heavily on his ass. The smell is stronger, and he has a horrible thought that he knows exactly what it is he's tripped over. Nevertheless, he gets to his knees, and reaches blindly out until his hand connects with the object on the floor. It takes a couple of seconds before he realizes that the movement under is fingertips is a mass of writhing, wriggling maggots.

"Oh _fuck_."

He yanks his hand away and scrambles backwards as quickly as he can across the floor until his back finally hits a wall. He can still feel the fat, squirming maggots against his skin and it makes him shudder with revulsion. The darkness is oppressive and for the first time, he's just a little afraid. He's never been scared of the night, even when he learnt what evil dwelt in it, but right now, he's prepared to admit that he's seriously freaked out.

There must be a way out of this place, away from the rotting, maggot-ridden corpse. He takes a shallow breath. Then another. Finally he pushes himself to his feet, back still braced against the wall. He puts his hands flat against the wall and begins to edge slowly around the room, feeling for a door, a window, any way out of the room. He counts the corners, and when he reaches five with no sign of anything but bare walls, he stops, sliding down the wall. He draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them and resting his forehead on his knees. Sammy'll be looking for him. All he has to do is stay calm and stay alive until Sam finds him. He just hopes that Sam hurries the hell up.

****

When the wave of emotion from Dean overwhelms him, he and Dad have just finished searching the last room on the first floor. They've gone over every inch, torn the place apart, damn near, but there's just no sign of Dean anywhere. He's already slightly panicky when the sensation hits. He gets revulsion, loneliness, unease and the faintest hint of fear. He sees nothing but darkness, although he can sense the _other_ presence in the room. It's this other presence that scares Sam most, because he can feel its malevolence, even through the bond, although he doesn't think that Dean is aware of it. He tries to reach through the bond, to send Dean some reassurance. For a second, he's not sure whether he succeeds or not, but then he gets something back. The emotions are so jumbled he can't identify them all. What he does recognize is relief and trust.

As quickly as it came, the vision and the connection are lost, as if someone slammed a door between him and Dean shut. The suddenness leaves him shocked and gasping. He blinks and instead of darkness, he finds Dad in front of him, hands wrapped around Sam's biceps. He recognises the look on Dad's face as worry, but he still feels a little distracted.

"Sam. What the hell happened? Sam? Talk to me, damnit."

"I felt Dean. I saw what he's seeing."

"What? What the...? How can you see what he's seeing?"

"The bond."

Dad just looks at him for a second and Sam wishes circumstances were anything other than what they are, because he'd really like the opportunity to appreciate the look of almost stupid incomprehension on Dad's face before it melts into fear and anger.

"How... My God, what have you _done_?"

"I needed to know I could find him. I, _we_ , wanted something permanent."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Yes. I know _exactly_ what we've done. Now can we argue about this later. I want to find Dean and get him the hell out of this house."

Dad looks as though he's going to argue and Sam spares a thought for the fact that Dean was right; he and Dad really can't spend five minutes in the same room without arguing. But Dad visibly swallows down whatever he was going to say, for at least the second time tonight.

"Ok. Then we keep looking." The look on Dad's face indicates that he's not done talking about the relationship between Sam and Dean. It's a conversation Sam isn't looking forward to, but all he wants now is to find Dean as quickly as possible. He tries to feel for him through the bond, but what he gets is vague and indistinct. He fights back the panic, pushes off the wall and lets Dad lead the way out of the room as they head for the top floor of the building.

****

They've been searching for hours. They've been through every room in the house at least once, from top to bottom and they've found nothing but dust and cobwebs. There's no sign anyone else has been here for years. It's as if Dean has just vanished. Sam's visibly shaken and panicky, and frankly, John's not much better, though he's had more practice at hiding it. Living the life they've lead, he's always dreaded the day one of his boys was seriously hurt. But not knowing what's happened to his eldest son, that's a whole new level of torture that he's never considered. He'd never realized anything could be worse than the gut wrenching twist of fear whenever his sons had been hurt.

Sam's sitting on the stairs, head in his hands, looking as though his whole world has ended. John has no idea what to say to him. Anything he might once have said about getting Dean back seems inadequate now, somehow. He can't understand, let alone excuse what they've done, but he can understand Sam's despair. His heart aches for the fact that his youngest child has had to go through this pain not once, but twice. He's determined that Sam won't have to suffer the loss of a loved one for a third time. They are going to get Dean back, no matter what it takes. John'll sacrifice damn near anything to save his sons. He doesn't care how long it takes, he'll find Dean. Everything else is irrelevant until Dean's safe.

"Sam."

Sam doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge John in anyway. He reigns in his automatic irritation and walks over, crouching down in front of his son. He hesitates for a moment, then reaches out, and catches one of Sam's hands in his.

"Sam. I _swear_ we're going to get Dean back. I _promise_. But we need to figure out what the hell we're dealing with here." He can feel Sam tense and when he attempts to pull his hand out of John's and stand, John just tightens his grip and pulls him back down. "I know you don't want to leave until we find him, but we need to do some research. We... I must have missed something. Once we understand this thing, we'll come back and we'll find him, Sam. We're not helping him by exhausting ourselves stumbling around blindly."

"Ok. But I'm coming back at dusk, no matter what." Sam's voice sounds small, but defiant.

"We'll both come back. I'm not leaving him here either. I want him back too, Sam." He can't help the way his voice cracks just a little. He realizes now that he never really understood just how much it's Dean's presence that keeps them together, keeps them sane and whole.

Sam looks up at the catch in John's voice and his eyes are filled with unshed tears and grief. It's pure instinct that has John pulling his son into his arms, letting Sam clutch at him with desperate hands and bury his face in John's shoulder. He holds his son tightly, gently stroking his back, trying not to let his own tears fall.

"Oh God, Dad. I want him back. I want him back so much."

John knows that he bears the blame for the shift in his sons’ relationship. He forced them to grow up too fast, forced them to rely on no-one but each other. He taught them that the normal rules didn't apply to them. He hates the thought of what they've done, but in the face of Sam's honest and open misery, he can't condemn them.

"I know, Sammy, I know."

He has no idea how long he kneels there, trying to offer what solace he can, trying not to transmit his own fears, but by the time Sam pulls away, rubbing his hand over his face, John's knees are screaming and his back is aching. Sam hasn't needed, or wanted, John's comfort for a long time and it makes John realize how much he misses his sons.

"Come on, let's get back to the hotel and find out what's going on."

Sam nods, and they both stand and walk to the front door. John walks through, going a few steps before he realizes that Sam's not with him. He turns back to find that Sam's on the threshold, looking back into the house. John can't see his face, but he can tell from the body language that it's killing Sam to have to leave, knowing that Dean's in there somewhere, alone. John's never had much time for gods, but he whispers a quiet prayer for both his sons, because if they don't get Dean back alive, he doesn't think Sam's going to survive.

He doesn't know if he will, either.

*****

It's already afternoon and although Sam hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours, it's the last thing on his mind. He's living on coffee and fear. He's also ready to throw the laptop across the room because despite spending so long in front of it his eyes are gritty and his neck is killing him, he hasn't found one damned thing that is going to help them get Dean back.

Dad's been to the library, spoken to half the town, searched through his journal and rung people Sam hasn't even _heard_ of. Nothing so far has told them anything they didn't already know. They've got about an hour before dusk, and Sam can feel the despair clawing at his guts.

It's that desperation that makes him click on the last link on his search page. At first glance, it's the usual run-of-the-mill, poorly designed ghost web page. He's about to close the browser and start getting his stuff together for tonight when he sees in the index a page about the house that's taken Dean. He clicks and what he reads finally gives him some hope.

****

"You're kidding me? A secret _room_?"

There are times when Dad and Dean sound so alike and right now, that hurts more than Sam would have thought possible.

"It looks as though when the house was originally built, there was a room that wasn't on the plans. A room that shouldn't exist. The doorway is apparently in an outside wall, but the room can't be seen from the outside of the house. Some people thought it was a gateway."

"To where?"

Sam shrugs. "To Hell, I guess."

"Right."

"Anyway, no-one knew about this room until one day the owner and builder was found dead, half in and half out of the room. There wasn't a mark on him and no-one could figure out why he died. The local people decided to ward the room, so that no-one could accidentally stumble into it and then they built another wall in front of it, to make doubly sure."

"So how is this linked to... people disappearing? We didn't find that room." Sam knows that Dad was going to say 'Dean' rather than 'people' and he has to swallow down his own panic again.

"I think that if that room was a doorway to _somewhere_ else, maybe something came through. Something that killed the original owner and has now found another way to take people who venture into the house."

"But what does it want them for?"

"No idea and to be honest, I don't care. I just want to find that room and get Dean out."

"You know where to look?"

"Yeah."

"You know how to break the wards and open the door?"

"I think... Yeah."

"Good." Dad accelerates and Sam goes back to praying that they're in time.

****

Dean's been sitting in the same spot for hours. He has no idea exactly how long it's been as his watch appears to have stopped, probably around the time he ended up here. He knows he's been here a long time.

Several times he's felt that same presence and more than once, something cold and clammy has brushed against his face. The touch makes him shudder with revulsion and brings with it the stench of decay, so strong it makes him gag and reminds him of the corpse, somewhere in the room. Not that he's forgotten it, as such. It's kinda hard to forget something like that, but most of the time he can push it to the back of his mind.

He's hummed his way through every song he can remember, at least twice over. Then he's sung them until his throat is dry and sore. This is worse than flying; at least on a plane he can _see_. Here he feels helpless, alone and vulnerable and he hates it. It's that hate, that anger that he clings most fiercely to, using it to dampen the fear that gnaws constantly at him. He has to get through this, has to survive, because he can't leave Sam, not now. Not after everything they've been through, not now that he's finally allowed himself to start believing that Sam's his, that this time Sam'll stay; not for revenge, but because he wants Dean. He’s just too damned selfish to give that up, and no damned spirit is going to take it away. Not without a fight.

Nevertheless, he hopes Sam finds him soon, because despite shifting positions several times, his legs are starting to cramp from sitting on the floor all day, he's tired and hungry and he just wants out of here, damnit. He tries taking deep breaths, beating down the panic, but then the lingering reek of rot and desolation seems to coat the back of his throat until he's choking on it.

Oh God, let Sam find him soon.

****

Sam's out of the car before it's even stopped moving. By the time John leaves the car, Sam's at the door, forcing John to break into a jog to catch up with him. He hopes that they aren't too late and just the thought leaves him sick with fear.

They both race up the stairs, Sam's longer legs keeping him ahead of his father. John doesn't ever remember this combination of dread and anticipation running through his veins before, leaving him cold one minute and sweating the next. He's never been on a hunt where the stakes have meant so much to him, not even when he though they had the demon in their grasp at last.

Sam races down a corridor, only to stop so suddenly, half way down, that John nearly crashes into him.

"What the _fuck_ , Sam?"

When Sam doesn't answer, he looks at his son, only to find he's trembling and his face is deathly pale.

"Sam. What the hell is wrong?"

"My vision. This is the hallway from my vision."

Fuck. John would give anything to never hear that raw desperation in his son's voice again.

"We're not going to lose him Sam, you hear me. We're not."

Sam still looks shaken but he nods and hefts the sledgehammer he's brought with him. John reaches out and grips Sam's shoulder, trying to offer what comfort he can. After a second's pause, Sam copies the gesture and John has one of those rare, treasured moments when he feels a deep connection to his son.

It only lasts a moment, then Sam's pulling away, walking to the end of the corridor. He takes a deep breath and then draws the sledgehammer back. The first blow drags John out of his reverie and he follow Sam, lifting his own sledgehammer, timing his first blow to hit on Sam's upswing.

It feels like forever before the wall finally gives way and starts crumbling beneath their blows. Whoever built it was serious about keeping people out. It worries John that despite the precautions, whatever is in that room has found a way to reach out into the rest of the house. He tries not to think about it, concentrating instead on maintaining a steady rhythm with the hammer, letting the physical activity bring him some measure of calm.

He's so caught up that it takes him a second to realize that Sam's stopped. He pauses, mid swing and Sam darts forward, scrabbling at the crumbling brickwork, pulling bricks from the wall with his bare hands. John drops the hammer and grabs a crowbar from his bag.

"Sam, move."

Sam gives no indication that he's heard John, still pulling at the masonry like a man possessed. John grabs one of his wrists, and hauls him out of the way, dodging his other arm as it flails at him.

"Damnit Sam. You're going to tear your fingers to shreds. Now _move_. Get the other crowbar and help me."

He doesn't wait to see what Sam does, turning his attention to the wall. He hears Sam take a shaky breath behind him and then his son is beside him again, helping him pry loose the bricks.

It takes them a while, but eventually they've cleared a slightly larger than door sized hole in the wall. A couple of feet behind which is nothing but another blank wall. John has to restrain himself from smashing the crowbar into it in frustration and fear.

"Fuck."

"No, no. The door was warded, they must have used one of those wards to hide it."

"You know how to find it?"

"Yeah. I think so. Hang on."

Sam dives back to his bag, digging around for a second before moving back to the wall with a scrap of paper and a stick of chalk in his hand. John raises an eyebrow; he can't help it. Sam ignores him steps up to the wall. John can see how his hand is shaking when he raises the chalk, but before it touches the wall, the shaking stops, and Sam's hand is steady as he begins to draw a rectangle, all the while reciting something under his breath, a little too quietly for John to make out what language he's speaking, let alone what he's saying.

It's not until Sam finishes the rectangle that John realizes what he's drawn. A door. Despite himself, John can't help but shiver. A gateway to hell. These things always seem faintly ridiculous, until you're standing in front of them. If that really is a gateway, God knows what's in there. God knows what state Dean's going to be in. John offers another silent prayer to any benevolent deity that might be listening that his eldest son is as strong as John has always tried to make him.

Sam finishes speaking and the silence that follows is so absolute that the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up. Sam steps back, away from the wall, eyes fixed on the chalk outline. Just as John's about to ask what went wrong, there's a rush of _something_ , like the touch of an icy cold hand down his spine that raises goose bumps on every inch of skin. For a brief instant he feels something like the crackle of static electricity across his body, before the sensation is gone, so fleeting he can't be entirely sure he didn't imagine it, except for the way that Sam's shuddering as well.

He looks back over and discovers that there is now a heavy wooden door where before there was unobtrusive wall and chalk. Every instinct he has is telling him that opening the door is a spectacularly bad idea. But Dean's behind that door _please **God** , let him be behind that door; let him be alive and well_ and he promised Sam they wouldn't leave without his brother.

He can see Sam swallow hard. He's about to ask, when the answer becomes all to obvious. If the corridor was in Sam's vision, then the door must have been as well. _"The vision, we were looking for Dean, here, in the house. And I, we found him...but... He was dead. Decaying. There were...maggots, everywhere. God, his face..."_ If Dean isn't alive and well, he swears that he will not stop until the thing in this house, in that room is dead. Even if he has to take the house apart, brick by brick to find it.

Sam steps forward and pushes the door, which swings open silently. Beyond is pitch black. Sam's about to step through when John stops him with a hand on his arm. He grabs a gun and a flashlight from his bag and presses them into Sam's hands. He wants to say something reassuring, something comforting, but the words elude him. Instead he squeezes Sam's hands, quickly, astonished and suddenly choked when Sam's eyes shine wetly. Sam looks down, blinks very hard and then nods. He gently pulls his hands back, adjusting his grip on the gun and bringing the flashlight up, then takes a step forward. John grabs another flashlight and gun and follows him to the doorway.

****

Sam steps through the doorway, to find the room on the other side is utterly dark, no hint of light from the outside world filtering thorough. The scent of decay has him swallowing back bile. He holds on to the thought that the only other time he's had a vision involving Dean dying, he managed to save him then.

The flashlight doesn't penetrate the darkness more than a couple of feet and his skin crawls. He can sense the malevolence in the air, an almost tangible presence. He tries hard not to think about the fact that Dean's been trapped here for almost twenty-four hours, alone.

He hears something behind him, and turns. He can just see the glimmer of Dad's flashlight and he realizes that the noise is Dad, trying to talk to him. He edges back to the door.

"...Sam, are you listening to me?"

"It's the room."

"What?"

"The room, it muffles sound, just like it seems to swallow light."

"Damn. Ok, you start at one side, I'll start at the other."

"No. One of us needs to stay by the door, make sure it doesn't close."

"Then you stay, you know how to open it."

"No. I need to do this. I need to find him Dad. I can't stand here and wait."

"And you think I can?"

"Please Dad, I need to."

Dad glares at him, then he nods once, and moves to stand in the doorway, shoulder braced against the open door.

"Then go. Go find him. Bring him back."

Sam nods back and heads back into the room, trying to use what little light that the room doesn't soak up to see where he's going. He reaches out to Dean through the bond, but there's nothing there and that terrifies him. He tries to cross the room slowly, watching and listening for whatever the thing that's take Dean is, but the knowledge that his brother's in here somewhere has him moving more quickly than he should and it's his haste that causes him to fall over a lump on the floor that he just never sees.

He lands heavily on his hands and knees, cursing, but managing to hold on to both the gun and the flashlight. The impact sends pain shooting up his arms. He ignores it, turning around to see what he's fallen over, although he already knows what he's going to see.   
The flashlight outlines the body Sam tripped over, and he barely needs the dim light to see that the face is obscured by fat, squirming maggots. The sense of despair is overwhelming and he's choking on his tears and trying not to puke. He wants to scream, to howl and cry, to find something, _anything_ to shot, to kill, to **hurt**. The sense of loss is like nothing he's felt before; not growing up knowing what happened to Mom, not even losing Jess. Dean's been everything to him and the thought of living without him is unbearable. He'd rather die alone in this room, next to his brother's decaying body than carry on alone.

A sudden touch on his shoulder sends him jerking backwards, hand brushing the maggot-ridden corpse, helpless to stop the shout of revulsion and shock that escapes him. He brings the flashlight and gun up, hands shaking.

"You scream like a girl, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse and rough but he's alive and that's all Sam cares about.

The flashlight plays across Dean's face, highlighting his cheekbones, making him squint despite the dim light. Sam drops his gun and reaches out a hand, almost afraid to touch, in case it's all an illusion. Then his fingertips brush across Dean's cheek and the relief of having found Dean makes him sob. Dean wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him close, resting his forehead against Sam's. They sit like that for a minute, then Dean pulls back a little and tips Sam's face up.

"Oh, Sammy." He brushes his thumb over what Sam is sure are tear tracks.

"Dean." He leans forwards as Dean moves and then they're kissing with frantic haste and Sam wonders if Dean can taste his despair.

It takes a massive effort to pull away from Dean, but he knows they need to get out of this room, before whatever the hell is in here makes another attempt. He picks up his gun.

"Are you ok? Can you stand?"

"Just about. My legs have gone to sleep and my ass is numb, but I'll live. Give me a hand up."

Sam stands and pulls his brother up with him. Dean leans on him and Sam wraps Dean's arm around his shoulders, and his own arm around Dean's waist. He hands Dean the flashlight and they make their way across the room, avoiding the corpse.

It's a relief to see the faint shine of Dad's flashlight as they approach the doorway. As they get closer, he realizes that Dad isn't looking at them, that he's shouting, trying to make himself heard. Sam senses the presence behind them at the same time Dean curses under his breath.

They speed up, but as they get closer to Dad and the doorway, Sam finally makes out what Dad's shouting.

"Get down. For God's sake, get down."

Sam drops to his knees and pulls Dean down with him. As they hit the floor he hears the muffled roar of Dad's shotgun. He ignores the ache in his knees, and half drags Dean towards the door, bent double to avoid getting in Dad's line of fire. He hears Dad fire at least twice more, then he's stumbling across the threshold, damn near sending both he and Dean sprawling onto the floor in his haste to get out of the room. He turns back, catching sight of something moving in the room. He can't make out anything distinct, it's vague and ill defined, just a slightly different shade of black to the rest of the room, but he can feel a sense of anger and menace emanating from it, nonetheless.

The shotgun fires, one last time, and then Dad steps back and slams the door shut.

"Dean..." Dad's voice cracks and then he's on his knees beside Dean.

"Hey."

Dad suddenly throws his arms around Dean and fists his hands in Dean's jacket, holding him so tightly, as if he's afraid to let go. Sam understands the need to touch, to reassure himself that Dean's really here. Dean holds onto him almost as tightly and it's long moments before they pull back.

"Good to see you, son."

"You too Dad."

"Lets get out of here." Between them, he and Sam get Dean back on his feet. Sam again wraps Dean's arm around his shoulders and his own around Dean's waist and they follow Dad.

They're halfway down the stairs when the house starts creaking and groaning around them. Cracks appear, running down the walls and across floors and ceilings.

"Fuck. Come on, we need to get the hell out of here." Dad wraps Dean's other arm around his own shoulders, and they rush down the stairs as quickly as they dare.

By the time they reach the entrance hall, the house is falling apart around them, huge chunks of plaster and masonry breaking off of the walls and ceilings. A huge rift appears, right in front of the door, around the same place that Dean disappeared last night. John looks at Sam as Dean shudders between them. Sam lets go of Dean and jumps across the gap. He holds out his hand and Dean takes it. With Sam pulling and John pushing, Dean makes it across the hole and into Sam's arms. John follows and taking his place at Dean's side, they cross the porch and stumble across the overgrown driveway.

"Stop. Stop." Dean pulls back.

"What? Dean, lets just get out of here." What the hell does Dean want to stop for.

"No. I want to make sure. I want to see that place burning."

"Damn it Dean, now is not the time to indulge your bizarre fascination with fire."

"I need to make sure." Sam recognizes the tone of voice. Dean is as stubborn as hell and when he gets that tone, there's no arguing and no reasoning with him until he's got his own way.

"Dean's right. We should make sure. We'll need to come back tomorrow and salt the land, but burning the place until then is the best way." Dad unwraps his arm from Dean's waist, and leaves him leaning on Sam. He heads for the car and pulls a can of gas from the trunk.

They head back to the house, Dean still leaning on Sam. The house no longer seems to be collapsing, but Sam can still hear sounds of creaking and groaning, as if the house is screaming in rage about their escape. He shivers.

Dad uncaps the gas can, and throws it through the still open door. Dean takes his arm from round Sam's shoulders, although Sam doesn't take his arm from Dean's waist, despite Dad's sideways glare. Dean takes his lighter and flicks it open, spinning the wheel until the flame catches.

He throws it into the house, and Sam watches it tumbling, then landing right in the puddle of gas spilling from the can.

"Fuck you, bitch."

The back draft as the gas ignites into a fireball blows the door shut, but he can see flames leaping behind the glass in the door.

"Do you know who the body in the room belonged to?" Dean's voice is hoarse and he never takes his eyes off the house.

"Not really. I'd guess it was the last person who went missing in the area, but there's no way of knowing for sure."

Dean nods and keeps his attention firmly on the burning house.

They watch the fire burn through the building until the roof finally collapses just as dawn breaks over the smoldering ruins of the house. Only then will Dean allow himself to be lead to the car. Sam helps him into the backseat, and then slides in after him. Dean is barely awake, and Sam can feel the worry and the lack of sleep catching up with him. Dean rests his head on Sam's shoulder and as Dad climbs into the driver’s seat, Sam can see his disapproving glare in the rear view mirror. He just can't bring himself to care. He has Dean back, safe and well and nothing else matters at the moment.

Sam's nearly asleep himself by the time they get back to the hotel. It takes him several attempts to wake Dean, and even then his brother is only half awake. Dean stumbles as they head for their room and nearly pulls Sam down with him.

Dad takes the keys from Sam and unlocks the door to his and Dean's room. Sam lets Dean tumble onto the bed. He turns to Dad, expecting and dreading the resumption of their previous argument. But Dad surprises him again.

"Take care of your brother. We'll talk in the morning."

"Dad?"

"He needs someone to take look after him right now. You take good care of him Sam." He drops Sam's keys onto the table and walks to the door. "Make sure you salt the doorway and I'll see you boys in the morning."

"Yessir."

The door clicks closed behind Dad and Sam turns to his brother. Dean is stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. Sam sighs. He begins unlacing Dean's boots and then he undoes Dean's jeans, trying to pull them down his brother's legs without waking him. He's just dragged them and Dean's socks off when Dean speaks.

"Sam. Get up here." Dean's voice is still husky and sleepy, and Sam could no more disobey than he could stop breathing. He crawls up to lie beside his brother and Dean rolls onto his side to face Sam.

"I knew you'd come. I knew I just had to wait."

"I'm sorry it took so long. I'm so sorry Dean."

"Shhhh. It's ok. I'm here. We're ok."

"What about Dad?"

Dean sighs. "Dad'll have to make his decision Sam. There's nothing we can do. I'm not giving this up and if Dad can't accept that, well, that's his choice."

Sam simply doesn't have the words to express how he feels and instead he leans forward and kisses Dean, slow and gentle. He pulls away eventually and despite his need to be close to Dean, he can tell that his brother is fighting just to stay awake.

"Go to sleep Dean, I'll be here."

Dean just nods and he's asleep mere seconds later, snoring softly. Sam cups his cheek and drops a quick kiss on his forehead, then gets off the bed to strip. He pulls the blankets out from under Dean, then slides carefully into bed behind him, covers them both with the blankets, wraps his arm around his brother and thanks every God and Goddess he can think of that Dean's safe.

****

He wakes slowly the next morning, still pressed up against Dean. After the horror of the day before, the simple pleasure of having Dean in his arms is the most precious thing he can imagine. He slips quietly out of bed, leaving Dean to sleep while he showers, intending to dress and get coffee.

When he leaves the bathroom though, Dean's awake already. They share a quick kiss, then Dean's heading for the shower. They've still got Dad to face, but that no longer worries Sam. He knows that somehow they'll make it through this.

Dean's dressed, apart from his boots when the knock at the door comes. Sam looks at his brother. Dean takes a breath, crooks a half smile at Sam and nods. Sam manages a weak smile in return, then opens the door.

Dad's there, holding three coffees. Sam can't tell if that's a good sign or a bad one, because he's never known Dad bring them coffee before.

"Sam." Dad hands him a cup.

"Dad."

Dad walks into the room and passes a second cup to Dean.

"Dean."

"Thanks."

There's an awkward pause, and Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks back and it's obvious he has no more idea of what to say than Sam does. Dad looks around the room and Sam inwardly flinches when his gaze lingers on the beds. It's obvious that only one has been slept in.

In the end, it's Dad who broaches the subject first.

"I can't condone this. I sure as hell don't understand it. But I can see that nothing I say or do is going to make any difference."

Dean shifts uncomfortably and Sam holds his breath, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.

"I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to accept that you're...what you're doing. But you boys are all I have and I don't want to lose you. I just… I need time to deal with _this_."

"You'll be back?" Dean's voice is quiet, neutral, though it's obvious how much the answer means to him.

"I... Yes. You're still my sons. Nothing will ever change that."

Dean nods, outwardly calm, but Sam can feel through the bond the same relief flow through both of them.

Dad nods back. Then he reaches out and pulls Dean into a hug no less heartfelt than the one he gave him last night. Sam watches and he can see the emotion flow across Dean's face. Dad eventually releases Dean and turns to Sam. He steps into Dad's arms and clings to his father as he once did when he was a child.

Dad turns to leave, but as he opens the door, Dean calls out to him.

"Make sure you leave your cell phone switched on this time."

Dad turns back, shocked at first, then after a second or two he grins and nods. The soft snick of the door closing behind him sounds loud in the quiet room.

Sam moves over to his brother, who's turned away. It doesn't hurt like it used to, that even now Dean won't, _can't_ show his emotions, even around Sam. Sam knows now that he has time to earn Dean's total trust.

He wraps his arms around his brother, and rests his head on Dean's shoulder, pressing his lips against Dean's neck. Dean is tense at first, then he relaxes, leaning back into Sam, trusting him to support him.

This isn't the life Sam wanted. It isn't normal and it isn't safe. But now he has it, he wouldn't change it for any other.


End file.
